HISTORIC   WATERWAYS 


HISTORIC  WATERWAYS 


SIX  HUNDRED  MILES  OF  CANOEING 

DOWN  THE  ROCK,  FOX,  AND 

WISCONSIN  RIVERS 


BY 

REUBEN   GOLD  _JHWAITE£ 

SECRETARY  OF  THE   STATE    HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  OF  WISCONSIN 


Other  roads  do  some  violence  to  Nature,  and  bring  the  traveller  to  stare 
at  her ;  but  the  river  steals  into  the  scenery  it  traverses  without  intrusion, 
silently  creating  and  adorning  it,  and  is  free  to  come  and  go  as  the 
zephyr.  —  THOREAU  ;  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  MerritnacJk  Rivers. 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.   McCLURG  AND    COMPANY 
1888 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  A.  C.  MCCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.D.    1888. 


)t0  3LfttIe  Folume 

IS    INSCRIBED    BY    THE    AUTHOR 
TO     HIS    WIFE, 

HIS     MESSMATE     UPON    TWO    OF    THE    THREE    VACATION 

VOYAGES    HEREIN    RECORDED, 

AND    HIS    FELLOW-VOYAGER   DOWN    THE    RIVER 
OF    TIME. 


PREFACE. 


THERE  is  a  generally  accepted  notion 
that  a  brief  summer  vacation,  if  at  all 
obtainable  in  this  busy  life  of  ours,  must  be 
spent  in  a  flight  as  far  afield  as  time  will  allow ; 
that  the  popular  resorts  in  the  mountains,  by 
the  seaside,  or  on  the  margins  of  the  upper 
lakes  must  be  sought  for  rest  and  enjoyment ; 
that  neighborhood  surroundings  should,  in  the 
mad  rush  for  change  of  air  and  scene,  be  left 
behind.  The  result  is  that  your  average  va- 
cationist—  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  coin  a 
needed  word  —  knows  less  of  his  own  State 
than  of  any  other,  and  is  inattentive  to  the 
delights  of  nature  which  await  inspection 
within  the  limits  of  his  horizon. 

But  let  him  mount  his  bicycle,  his  saddle- 
horse,  or  his  family  carriage,  and  start  out 
upon  a  gypsy  tour  of  a  week  or  two  along  the 
country  roads,  exploring  the  hills  and  plains 
and  valleys  of — say  his  congressional  dis- 


8  Preface. 

trict  ;  or,  better  by  far,  take  his  canoe,  and 
with  his  best  friend  for  a  messmate  explore 
the  nearest  river  from  source  to  mouth,  and 
my  word  for  it  he  will  find  novelty  and  fresh 
air  enough  to  satisfy  his  utmost  cravings  ; 
and  when  he  comes  to  return  to  his  counter, 
his  desk,  or  his  study,  he  will  be  conscious  of 
having  discovered  charms  in  his  own  locality 
which  he  has  in  vain  sought  in  the  accus- 
tomed paths  of  the  tourist. 

This  volume  is  the  record  of  six  hundred 
miles  of  canoeing  experiences  on  historic  water- 
ways in  Wisconsin  and  Illinois  during  the 
summer  of  1887.  There  has  been  no  attempt 
at  exaggeration,  to  color  its  homely  incidents, 
or  to  picture  charms  where  none  exist.  It  is 
intended  to  be  a  simple,  truthful  narrative  of 
what  was  seen  and  done  upon  a  series  of 
novel  outings  through  the  heart  of  the  North- 
west If  it  may  induce  others  to  undertake 
similar  excursions,  and  thus  increase  the  little 
navy  of  healthy  and  self-satisfied  canoeists,  the 
the  object  of  the  publication  will  have  been 
attained. 

I  am  under  obligations  to  my  friend,  the 
Hon.  Levi  Alden,  for  valuable  assistance  in 
the  revision  of  proof-sheets. 

R.  G.  T. 
MADISON,  Wis.,  December,  1887. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION 15 

TABLE  OF  DISTANCES 26 


laorft  latter. 

CHAPTER   I. 
THE  WINDING  YAHARA     .  • 31 

CHAPTER   II. 
BARBED- WIRE  FENCES 48 


CHAPTER  III. 
AN  ILLINOIS  PRAIRIE  HOME 


61 


CHAPTER   IV. 
THE  HALF-WAY  HOUSE 74 


io  Contents. 

CHAPTER   V. 

PAGE 

GRAND  DETOUR  FOLKS     ........    86 

CHAPTER   VT. 
AN  ANCIENT  MARINER      ........  103 

CHAPTER  VII. 
STORM-BOUND  AT  ERIE     ........  117 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  LAST  DAY  OUT     .........  129 


Jfax  i&ifor  (of  <£reen  Bag). 


FIRST   LETTER. 
SMITH'S  ISLAND    ...........  143 

SECOND   LETTER. 
FROM  PACKWAUKEE  TO  BERLIN     .....  160 

THIRD    LETTER. 
THE  MASCOUTINS      ..........   174 

FOURTH    LETTER. 
THE  LAND  OF  THE  WINNEBAGOES      .     .     .     .187 


Contents.  1 1 

FIFTH   LETTER. 

PAGE 

LOCKED  THROUGH 205 

SIXTH    LETTER. 
THE  BAY  SETTLEMENT 218 

Efje  SEisconsin  2&ifcer, 

CHAPTER   I. 
ALONE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 237 

CHAPTER   II. 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  SACS 248 

CHAPTER   III. 
A  PANORAMIC  VIEW 262 

CHAPTER  IV. 
FLOATING  THROUGH  FAIRYLAND 275 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  DISCOVERY  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI  ....  288 

INDEX 295 


INTRODUCTION. 


HISTORIC    WATERWAYS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

T)ROVIDED,  reader,  you  have  a  goodly 
JT  store  of  patience,  stout  muscles,  a  prac- 
ticed fondness  for  the  oars,  a  keen  love  of  the 
picturesque  and  curious  in  nature,  a  capacity 
for  remaining  good-humored  under  the  most 
adverse  circumstances,  together  with  a  quiet 
love  for  that  sort  of  gypsy  life  which  we  call 
"  roughing  it,"  canoeing  may  be  safely  recom- 
mended to  you  as  one  of  the  most  delightful 
and  healthful  of  outdoor  recreations,  as  well 
as  one  of  the  cheapest. 

The  canoe  need  not  be  of  birch-bark  or 
canvas,  or  of  the  Rob  Roy  or  Racine  pattern. 
A  plain,  substantial,  light,  open  clinker-build 
was  what  we  used,  —  thirteen  feet  in  extreme 
length,  with  three-and-a-half  feet  beam.  It 


1 6  Historic   Waterways. 

was  easily  portaged,  held  two  persons  com- 
fortably with  seventy-five  pounds  of  baggage, 
and  drew  but  five  inches,  —  just  enough  to  let 
us  over  the  average  shallows  without  bump- 
ing. It  was  serviceable,  and  stood  the  rough 
carries  and  innumerable  bangs  from  sunken 
rocks  and  snags  along  its  voyage  of  six  hun- 
dred miles,  without  injury.  It  could  carry  a 
large  sprit-sail,  and,  with  an  attachable  keel, 
run  close  to  the  wind  ;  while  an  awning,  de- 
cided luxury  on  hot  days,  was  readily  hoisted 
on  a  pair  of  hoops  attached  to  the  gunwale  on 
either  side.  But  perhaps,  where  there  are  no 
portages  necessary,  an  ordinary  flat-bottomed 
river  punt,  built  of  three  boards,  would  be  as 
productive  of  good  results,  except  as  to  speed, 
—  and  what  matters  speed  upon  such  a  tour 
of  observation  ? 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  the  Maine  lakes 
for  canoeing  purposes ;  or  to  skirt  the  g!oomy 
wastes  of  Labrador,  or  descend  the  angry 
current  of  a  mountain  stream.  Here,  in  the 
Mississippi  basin,  practically  boundless  (  ppor- 
tunities  present  themselves,  at  our  very  'oors, 
to  glide  through  the  heart  of  a  fertil  and 
picturesque  land,  to  commune  with  Nature, 
to  drink  in  her  beauties,  to  view  men  and 
communities  from  a  novel  standpoint,  to  catch 
pictures  of  life  and  manners  that  will  always 


Introduction.  1 7 

live  in  one's  memory.  The  traveler  by  rail 
has  brief  and  imperfect  glimpses  of  the  land- 
scape. The  canoeist,  from  his  lowly  seat 
near  the  surface  of  the  flood,  sees  the 
country  practically  as  it  was  in  pioneer  days, 
in  a  state  of  unalloyed  beauty.  Each  bend  in 
the  stream  brings  into  view  a  new  vista,  and 
thus  the  bewitching  scene  changes  as  in  a 
kaleidoscope.  The  people  one  meets,  the  va- 
riety of  landscape  one  encounters,  the  simple 
adventures  of  the  day,  the  sensation  of  being 
an  explorer,  the  fresh  air  and  simple  diet, 
combined  with  that  spirit  of  calm  contented- 
ness  which  overcomes  the  happy  voyager  who 
casts  loose  from  care,  are  the  never-failing 
attractions  of  such  a  trip. 

To  those  would-be  canoeists  who  are  fond 
of  the  romantic  history  of  our  great  West,  as 
well  as  of  delightful  scenery,  the  Fox  (of 
Green  Bay),  the  Rock,  and  the  Wisconsin, 
each  with  its  sharply  distinctive  features, 
will  be  found  among  the  most  interesting  of 
our  neighborhood  rivers.  And  this  record  of 
recent  voyages  upon  them  is,  I  think,  fairly 
representative  of  what  sights  and  experiences 
await  the  boatman  upon  any  of  the  streams 
of  similar  importance  in  the  vast  and  well- 
watered  region  of  the  upper  Mississippi  valley. 

Of  the  three,  the  Rock  river  route,  through 


1 8  Historic  Waterways. 

the  great  prairies  of  Illinois,  perhaps  presents 
the  greatest  variety  of  life  and  scenery.  The 
Rock  has  practically  two  heads :  the  smaller, 
in  a  rustic  stream  flowing  from  the  north  into 
swamp-girted  Lake  Koshkonong;  the  larger, 
in  the  four  lakes  at  Madison,  the  charming 
capital  of  Wisconsin,  which  empty  their  wat- 
ers into  the  Avon-like  Catfish  or  Yahara, 
which  in  turn  pours  into  the  Rock  a  short 
distance  below  the  Koshkonong  lake.  Our 
course  was  from  Madison  almost  to  the  mouth 
of  the  Rock,  near  Rock  Island,  267  miles  of 
paddling,  as  the  river  winds. 

The  student  of  history  finds  the  Rock  in- 
teresting to  him  because  of  its  associations 
with  the  Black  Hawk  war  of  1832.  When 
the  famous  Sac  warrior  "  invaded "  Illinois, 
his  path  of  progress  was  up  the  south  bank 
of  that  stream.  At  Prophetstown  lived  his 
evil  genius,  the  crafty  White  Cloud,  and  here 
the  Hawk  held  council  with  the  Pottawat- 
tomies,  who,  under  good  Shaubena's  influence, 
rejected  the  war  pipe.  Dixon  is  famous  as 
the  site  of  the  pioneer  ferry  over  the  Rock, 
on  the  line  of  what  was  the  principal  land 
highway  between  Chicago  and  southern  Wis- 
consin and  the  Galena  mines  for  a  protracted 
period  in  each  year.  Here,  many  a  notable 
party  of  explorers,  military  officials,  miners, 


Introduction.  1 9 

and  traders  have  rendezvoused  in  the  olden 
time.  Here  was  a  rallying-point  in  1832,  as 
well,  when  Lincoln  was  a  raw-boned  militia- 
man in  a  scouting  corps,  and  Robert  Ander- 
son, of  Fort  Sumter  fame,  Zachary  Taylor, 
and  Jefferson  Davis  were  of  the  regular  army 
under  bluff  old  Atkinson.  A  grove  at  the 
mouth  of  Stillman's  Creek,  a  Rock  River 
tributary,  near  Byron,  is  the  scene  of  the 
actual  outbreak  of  the  war.  The  forest  where 
Black  Hawk  camped  with  the  white-loving 
Pottavvattomies  is  practically  unchanged,  and 
the  open,  rolling  prairie  to  the  south  —  oji 
which  Stillman's  horsemen  acted  at  first  so 
treacherously,  and  afterwards  as  arrant  cow- 
ards —  is  still  there,  a  broad  pasture-land 
miles  in  length,  along  the  river.  The  contem- 
poraneous descriptions  of  the  "  battle  "  field 
are  readily  recognizable  to-day.  Above,  as 
far  as  Lake  Koshkonong,  the  river  banks  are 
fraught  with  interest ;  for  along  them  the 
soldiery  followed  up  the  Sac  trail,  like  blood- 
hounds, and  held  many  an  unsatisfactory 
parley  with  the  double-faced  Winnebagoes. 

Rock  River  scenery  combines  the  rustic, 
the  romantic,  and  the  picturesque,  —  prairies, 
meadows,  ravines,  swamps,  mountainous 
bluffs,  eroded  palisades,  wide  stretches  of 
densely  wooded  bottoms,  heavy  upland  forests, 


2O  Historic  Waterways. 

shallows,  spits,  and  rapids.  Birds  and  flowers, 
and  uncommon  plants  and  vines,  delight  the 
naturalist  and  the  botanist.  The  many  thriv- 
ing manufacturing  cities,  —  such  as  Stough- 
ton,  Janesville,  Beloit,  Rockford,  Rockton, 
Dixon,  Sterling,  and  Oregon,  —  furnish  an 
abundance  of  sight-seeing.  The  small  vil- 
lages —  some  of  them  odd,  out-of-the-way 
places,  of  rare  types  —  are  worthy  of  study  to 
the  curious  in  economics  and  human  nature. 
The  farmers  are  of  many  types  ;  the  fisher- 
men one  is  thrown  into  daily  communion  with 
are  a  class  unto  themselves  ;  while  millers, 
bridge-tenders,  boat-renters,  and  others  whose 
callings  are  along-shore,  present  a  variety  of 
humanity  interesting  and  instructive.  The 
twenty-odd  mill-dam  portages,  each  having 
difficulties  and  incidents  of  its  own,  are  well 
calculated  to  vary  the  monotony  of  the  voy- 
age ;  there  are  more  or  less  dangers  connected 
with  some  of  the  mill-races,  while  the  look- 
out for  snags,  bowlders  and  shallows  must  be 
continuous,  sharpening  the  senses  of  sight 
and  sound  ;  for  a  tip-over  or  the  utter  demoli- 
tion of  the  craft  may  readily  follow  careless- 
ness in  this  direction.  The  islands  in  the 
Rock  are  numerous,  many  of  them  being 
several  miles  in  length,  and  nearly  all  heavily 
wooded.  These  frequent  divisions  of  the 


Introduction.  2 1 

channel  often  give  rise  to  much  perplexity  ; 
for  the  ordinary  summer  stage  of  water  is  so 
low  that  a  loaded  canoe  drawing  five  inches 
of  water  is  liable  to  be  stranded  in  the  chan- 
nel apparently  most  available. 

The  Fox  and  Wisconsin  rivers  —  the  for- 
mer, from  Portage  to  Green  Bay,  the  latter 
from  Portage  to  Prairie  du  Chien  —  form  a 
water  highway  that  has  been  in  use  by  white 
men  for  two  and  a  half  centuries.  In  1634, 
Jean  Nicolet,  the  first  explorer  of  the  North- 
west, passed  up  the  Fox  River,  to  about  Berlin, 
and  then  went  southward  to  visit  the  Illinois. 
In  the  month  of  June,  16/3,  Joliet  and  Mar- 
quette  made  their  famous  tour  over  the  in- 
terlocked watercourse  and  discovered  the 
Mississippi  River.  After  they  had  shown  the 
way,  a  tide  of  travel  set  in  over  these  twin 
streams,  between  the  Great  Lakes  and  the 
great  river, — a  motley  procession  of  Jesuit 
missionaries,  explorers,  traders,  trappers,  sol- 
diers and  pioneers.  New  England  was  in 
its  infancy  when  the  Fox  and  Wisconsin  be- 
came an  established  highway  for  enterprising 
canoeists. 

Since  the  advent  of  the  railway  era  this 
historic  channel  of  communication  has  fallen 
into  disuse.  The  general  government  has 
spent  an  immense  sum  in  endeavoring  to 


22  Historic  Waterways. 

render  it  navigable  for  the  vessels  in  vogue 
to-day,  but  the  result,  as  a  whole,  is  a  failure. 
There  is  no  navigation  on  the  Fox  worthy  of 
mention,  above  Berlin,  and  even  that  below  is 
insignificant  and  intermittent.  On  the  Wis- 
consin there  is  none  at  all,  except  for  skiffs 
and  an  occasional  lumber-raft. 

The  canoeist  of  to-day,  therefore,  will  find 
solitude  and  shallows  enough  on  either  river. 
But  he  can  float,  if  historically  inclined, 
through  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  past,  for 
every  turn  of  the  bank  has  its  story,  and  there 
is  romance  enough  to  stock  a  volume. 

The  upper  Fox  is  rather  monotonous. 
The  river  twists  and  turns  through  enormous 
widespreads,  grown  up  with  wild  rice  and 
flecked  with  water-fowl.  These  widespreads 
occasionally  free  themselves  of  vegetable 
growth  and  become  lakes,  like  the  Buffalo, 
the  Puckawa,  and  the  Poygan.  There  is, 
however,  much  of  interest  to  the  student  in 
natural  history  ;  while  such  towns  as  Montello, 
Princeton,  Berlin,  Omro,  Winneconne,  and 
Oshkosh  are  worthy  of  visitation.  Lake 
Winnebago  is  a  notable  inland  sea,  and  the 
canoeist  feels  fairly  lost,  in  his  little  cockle 
shell,  bobbing  about  over  its  great  waves. 
The  lower  Fox  runs  between  high,  noble 
banks,  and  with  frequent  rapids,  past  Neenah, 


Introduction.  2  3 

Menasha,  Appleton,  and  other  busy  manu- 
facturing cities,  down  to  Green  Bay,  hoary 
with  age  and  classic  in  her  shanty  ruins. 

The  Wisconsin  River  is  the  most  pictur- 
esque of  the  three.  Probably  the  best  route  is 
from  the  head  of  the  Dells  to  the  mouth  ;  but 
the  run  from  Portage  to  the  mouth  is  the  one 
which  has  the  merit  of  antiquity,  and  is  cer- 
tainly a  long  enough  jaunt  to  satisfy  the  average 
tourist.  It  is  a  wide,  gloomy,  mountain-girt 
valley,  with  great  sand-bars  and  thickly- 
wooded  morasses.  Settlement  is  slight.  Por- 
tage, Prairie  du  Sac,  Sauk  City,  and  Muscoda 
are  the  principal  towns.  The  few  villages 
are  generally  from  a  mile  to  three  miles  back, 
at  the  foot  of  the  bluffs,  out  of  the  way  of  the 
flood,  and  the  river  appears  to  be  but  little 
used.  It  is  an  ideal  sketching-ground.  The 
canoeist  with  a  camera  will  find  occupation 
enough  in  taking  views  of  his  surroundings  ; 
perplexity  as  to  what  to  choose  amid  such  a 
crowd  of  charming  scenes,  will  be  his  only 
difficulty. 

Some  suggestions  to  those  who  may  wish 
to  undertake  these  or  similar  river  trips  may 
be  advisable.  Traveling  alone  will  be  found 
too  dreary.  None  but  a  hermit  could  enjoy 
those  long  stretches  of  waterway,  where  one 
may  float  for  a  day  without  seeing  man  or 


24  Historic  Waterways. 

animal  on  the  forest-bounded  shores,  and 
where  the  oppression  of  solitude  is  felt  with 
such  force  that  it  requires  but  a  slight  stretch 
of  imagination  to  carry  one's  self  back  in 
thought  and  feeling  to  the  days  when  the 
black-robed  members  of  the  Company  of 
Jesus  first  penetrated  the  gloomy  wilderness. 
Upon  the  size  of  the  party  should  depend  the 
character  of  the  preparations.  If  the  plan  is 
to  spend  the  nights  at  farmhouses  or  village 
taverns,,  then  a  party  of  two  will  be  as  large  as 
can  secure  comfortable  quarters,  —  especially 
at  a  farmhouse,  where  but  one  spare  bed  can 
usually  be  found,  while  many  are  the  country 
inns  where  the  accommodations  are  equally 
limited.  If  it  is  intended  to  tent  on  the 
banks,  then  the  party  should  be  larger;  for 
two  persons  unused  to  this  experience  would 
find  it  exceedingly  lonesome  after  nightfall, 
when  visions  of  river  tramps,  dissolute  fisher- 
men, and  inquisitive  hogs  and  bulls,  pass  in 
review,  and  the  weakness  of  the  little  camp 
against  such  formidable  odds  comes  to  be 
fully  recognized.  Often,  too,  the  camping- 
places  are  few  and  far  between,  and  may  in- 
volve a  carry  of  luggage  to  higher  lands 
beyond  ;  on  such  occasions,  the  more  assist- 
ance the  merrier.  But  whatever  the  prep- 
arations for  the  night  and  breakfast,  the 


Introduction.  25 

mess-box  must  be  relied  upon  for  dinners 
and  suppers,  for  there  is  no  dining-car  to  be 
taken  on  along  these  water  highways,  and 
eating-stations  are  unknown..  Unless  there 
are  several  towns  on  the  route,  of  over  one 
thousand  inhabitants,  it  would  be  well  to 
carry  sufficient  provisions  of  a  simple  sort 
for  the  entire  trip,  for  supplies  are  difficult  to 
obtain  at  small  villages,  and  the  quality  is 
apt  to  be  poor.  Farmhouses  can  generally 
be  depended  on  for  eggs,  butter,  and  milk,  — 
nothing  more.  For  drinking-water,  obtain- 
able from  farm-wells,  carry  an  army  canteen, 
if  you  can  get  one  ;  if  not,  a  stone  jug  will  do. 
The  river  water  is  useful  only  for  floating  the 
canoe,  and  the  offices  of  the  bath.  As  to  per- 
sonal baggage,  fly  very  light,  as  a  draught 
of  over  six  inches  would  at  times  work  an 
estoppel  to  your  progress  on  any  of  the  three 
streams  mentioned.  In  shipping  your  boat 
to  any  point  at  which  you  wish  to  embark 
upon  a  river,  allow  two  or  three  days  for 
freight-train  delays. 

Be  prepared  to  find  canoeing  a  rough  sport. 
There  is  plenty  of  hard  work  about  it,  a  good 
deal  of  sunburn  and  blister.  You  will  be 
obliged  to  wear  your  old  clothes,  and  may  not 
be  overpleased  to  meet  critical  friends  in  the 
river  towns  you  visit.  But  if  you  have  the 


26  Historic  Waterways. 

true  spirit  of  the  canoeist,  you  will  win  for 
your  pains  an  abundance  of  good  air,  good 
scenery,  wholesome  exercise,  sound  sleep,  and 
and  something  to  think  about  all  your  life. 


TABLE  OF  DISTANCES.  — TOTAL,  607   MILES. 

THE   ROCK   RIVER. 

MILES- 

Madison  to  Stoughton 22 

Stoughton  to  Janesville 40 

Janesville  to  Beloit 18 

Beloit  to  Rockford 40 

Rockford  to  Byron 18 

Byron  to  Oregon 15 

Oregon  to  Dixon 31 

Dixon  to  Sterling 20 

Sterling  to  Como 9 

Como  to  Lyndon 14 

Lyndon  to  Prophets  town 5 

Prophetstown  to  Erie  Ferry 10 

Erie  Ferry  to  Coloma 25 

Coloma  to  mouth  of  river 14 

Mouth  of  river  to  Rock  Island  (up  Mississippi 

River) 6 

Total       287 

THE  FOX  RIVER   (OF  GREEN  BAY). 

MILES. 

Portage  to  Packwaukee 25 

Packwaukee  to  Montello 7 

Montello  to  Marquette n 


Introduction.  2  7 


Marquette  to  Princeton 18 

Princeton  to  Berlin 20 

Berlin  to  Omro 18 

Omro  to  Oshkosh 22 

Oshkosh  to  Neenah 20 

Xeenah  to  Appleton 7 

Appleton  to  Kaukauna 7 

Kaukauna  to  Green  Bay 20 

Total 175 

THE  WISCONSIN  RIVER. 

MILES. 

Portage  to  Merrimac 20 

Merrimac  to  Prairie  du  Sac 10 

Prairie  du  Sac  to  Arena  Ferry 15 

Arena  Ferry  to  Helena 8 

Helena  to  Lone  Rock  Bridge 14 

Lone  Rock  Bridge  to  Muscoda 18 

Muscoda  to  Port  Andrew 9 

Port  Andrew  to  Boscobel 10 

Boscobel  to  Boydtown 10 

Boydtown  to  Wauzeka  (on  Kickapoo)    ....  7 

Wauzeka  to  Wright's  Ferry 10 

Wright's  Ferry  to  Bridgeport 4 

Bridgeport  to  mouth  of  river 7 

Mouth  of  river  to  Prairie  du  Chien  (up  Missis- 
sippi River)    5 

Total 145 


NOTE.  —  The  above  table  of  distances  by  water  is  based 
upon  the  most  reliable  local  estimates,  verified,  as  far  as 
practicable,  by  official  surveys. 


THE   ROCK   RIVER. 


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THE    ROCK    RIVER. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE    WINDING    YAHARA. 

IT  was  a  quarter  to  twelve,  Monday  morn- 
ing, the  23d  of  May,  1887,  when  we  took 
seats  in  our  canoe  at  our  own  landing-stage 
on  Third  Lake,  at  Madison,  spread  an  awning 
over  two  hoops,  as  on  a  Chinese  house-boat, 
pushed  off,  waved  farewell  to  a  little  group  of 
curious  friends,  and  started  on  our  way  to 

explore  the  Rock  River  of  Illinois.     W 

wielded  the  paddle  astern,  while  I  took  the 
oars  amidships.  Despite  the  one  hundred 
pounds  of  baggage  and  the  warmth  emitted 
by  the  glowing  sun,  —  for  the  season  was  un- 
usually advanced,  —  we  made  excellent  speed, 
as  we  well  had  need  in  order  to  reach  the 
mouth,  a  distance  of  two  hundred  and  eighty 


32  Historic  Waterways. 

miles  as  the  sinuous  river  runs,  in  the  seven 
days  we  had  allotted  to  the  task. 

It  was  a  delightful  run  across  the  southern 
arm  of  the  lake.  There  was  a  light  breeze 
aft,  which  gave  a  graceful  upward  curvature 
to  our  low-set  awning.  The  great  elms  and 
lindens  at  charming  Lakeside  —  the  home  of 
the  Wisconsin  Chautauqua — droop  over  the 
bowlder-studded  banks,  their  masses  of  green- 
ery almost  sweeping  the  water.  Down  in  the 
deep,  cool  shadows  groups  of  bass  and  pick- 
erel and  perch  lazily  swish  ;  swarms  of  "  crazy 
bugs "  ceaselessly  swirl  around  and  around, 
with  no  apparent  object  in  life  but  this 
rhythmic  motion,  by  which  they  wrinkle  the 
mirror-like  surface  into  concentric  circles. 
Through  occasional  openings  in  the  dense 
fringe  of  pendent  boughs,  glimpses  can  be  had 
of  park-like  glades,  studded  with  columnar 
oaks,  and  stretching  upward  to  hazel-grown 
knolls,  which  rise  in  irregular  succession 
beyond  the  bank.  From  the  thickets  comes 
the  fussy  chatter  of  thrushes  and  cat-birds, 
calling  to  their  young  or  gossiping  with  the 
orioles,  the  robins,  jays,  and  red-breasted 
grosbeaks,  who  warble  and  twitter  and  scream 
and  trill  from  more  lofty  heights. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  sent  us  spinning 
across  the  mouth  of  Turvill's  Bay.  At  Ott's 


The  Winding  Yahara.  33 

Farm,  just  beyond,  the  bank  rises  with  sheer 
ascent,  in  layers  of  crumbly  sandstone,  a 
dozen  feet  above  the  water's  level.  Close- 
cropped  woodlawn  pastures  gently  slope  up- 
ward to  storm-wracked  orchards,  and  long, 
dark  windbreaks  of  funereal  spruce.  Flocks 
of  sheep,  fresh  from  the  shearing,  trot  along 
the  banks,  winding  in  and  out  between  the 
trees,  keeping  us  company  on  our  way,  —  their 
bleating  lambs  following  at  a  lope,  —  now 
and  then  stopping,  in  their  eager,  fearful  curi- 
osity, to  view  our  craft,  and  assuming  pic- 
turesque attitudes,  worthy  subjects  for  a 
painter's  art. 

A  long,  hard  pull  through  close-grown 
patches  of  reeds  and  lily-pads,  encumbered 
by  thick  masses  of  green  scum,  brought  us  to 
the  outlet  of  the  lake  and  the  head  of  that 
section  of  the  Catfish  River  which  is  the 
medium  through  which  Third  Lake  pours 
its  overflow  into  Second.  The  four  lakes  of 
Madison  are  connected  by  the  Catfish,  the 
chief  Wisconsin  tributary  of  the  Rock.  Upon 
the  map  this  relationship  reminds  one  of 
beads  strung  upon  a  thread. 

As  the  result  of  a  protracted  drought,  the 

water  in  the  little  stream  was  low,  and  great 

clumps  of  aquatic  weeds  came  very  close  to 

the  surface,  threatening,  later  in  the  season, 

3 


34  Historic  Waterways. 

an  almost  complete  stoppage  to  navigation. 
But  the  effect  of  the  current  was  at  once  per- 
ceptible. It  was  as  if  an  additional  rower  had 
been  taken  on.  The  river,  the  open  stream  of 
which  is  some  three  rods  wide  at  this  point, 
winds  like  a  serpent  between  broad  marshes, 
which  must  at  no  far  distant  period  in  the 
past  have  been  wholly  submerged,  thus  pro- 
longing the  three  upper  lakes  into  a  continu- 
ous sheet  of  water.  From  a  half-mile  to  a 
mile  back,  on  either  side,  there  are  low  ridges, 
doubtless  the  ancient  shores  of  a  narrow  lake 
that  was  probably  thirty  or  forty  miles  in 
length.  In  high  water,  even  now,  the 
marshes  are  converted  into  widespreads, 
where  the  dense  tangle  of  wild  rice,  reeds,  and 
rushes  does  not  wholly  prevent  canoe  naviga- 
tion ;  while  little  mud-bottomed  lakes,  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  or  so  in  diameter,  are  frequently 
met  with  at  all  stages.  In  places,  the  river, 
during  a  drought,  has  a  depth  of  not  over 
eighteen  inches.  In  such  stretches,  the  cur- 
rent moves  swiftly  over  hard  bottoms  strewn 
with  gravel  and  the  whitened  sepulchres  of 
snails  and  clams.  In  the  widespreads,  the 
progress  is  sluggish,  the  vegetable  growth  so 
crowding  in  upon  the  stream  as  to  leave  but  a 
narrow  and  devious  channel,  requiring  skill  to 
pilot  through  ;  for  in  these  labyrinthian  turn- 


The  Winding  Yahara.  35 

ings  one  is  quite  liable,  if  not  closely  watching 
the  lazy  flood,  to  push  into  some  vexatious 
cul-de-sac,  many  rods  in  length,  and  be 
obliged  to  retrace,  with  the  danger  of  mistak- 
ing a  branch  for  the  main  channel. 

In  the  depths  of  the  tall  reeds  motherly 
mud-hens  are  clucking,  while  their  mates 
squat  in  the  open  water,  in  meditative  groups, 
rising  with  a  prolonged  splash  and  a  whirr  as 
the  canoe  approaches  within  gunshot.  Se- 
cluded among  the  rushes  and  cat-tails,  nestled 
down  in  little  clumps  of  stubble,  are  hundreds 
of  the  cup-shaped  nests  of  the  red-winged 
blackbird,  or  American  starling;  the  females, 
in  modest  brown,  take  a  rather  pensive  view 
of  life,  administering  to  the  wants  of  their 
young  ;  while  the  bright-hued,  talkative  males, 
perched  on  swaying  stalks,  fairly  make  the  air 
hum  with  their  cheery  trills. 

Water-lilies  abound  everywhere.  The  blos- 
soms of  the  yellow  variety  (nuphar  advena) 
are  here  and  there  bursting  in  select  groups, 
but  as  a  rule  the  buds  are  still  below  the 
surface.  In  the  mud  lakes,  the  bottom  is 
seen  through  the  crystal  water  to  be  thickly 
studded  with  great  rosettes,  two  and  three 
feet  in  diameter,  of  corrugated  ovate  leaves, 
of  golden  russet  shade,  out  of  which  are  shot 
upward  brilliant  green  stalks,  some  bearing 


36  Historic  Waterways. 

arrow-shaped  leaves,  and  others  crowned  with 
the  tight-wrapped  buds  that  will  soon  open 
upon  the  water  level  into  saff  ron-hued  flowers. 
The  plate-like  leaves  of  the  white  variety 
(nymphasa  tuberosa)  already  dot  the  surface, 
but  the  buds  are  not  yet  visible.  Anchored 
by  delicate  stems  to  the  creeping  root-stalks, 
buried  in  the  mud  below,  the  leaves,  when 
first  emerging,  are  of  a  rich  golden  brown, 
but  they  are  soon  frayed  by  the  waves,  and 
soiled  and  eaten  by  myriads  of  water-bugs, 
slugs,  and  spiders,  who  make  their  homes 
on  these  floating  islands.  Pluck  a  leaf, 
and  the  many-legged  spiders,  the  roving  buc- 
caneers of  these  miniature  seas,  stalk  off  at 
high  speed,  while  the  slugs  and  leeches,  in  a 
spirit  of  stubborn  patriotism,  prefer  meet- 
ing death  upon  their  native  heath  to  politic 
emigration. 

By  one  o'clock  we  had  reached  the  railway 
bridge  at  the  head  of  Second  Lake.  Upon 
the  trestlework  were  perched  three  boys  and 
a  man,  fishing.  They  had  that  listless  air  and 
unkempt  appearance  which  are  so  character- 
istic of  the  little  groups  of  humanity  often  to 
be  found  on  a  fair  day  angling  from  piers, 
bridges,  and  railway  embankments.  Men  who 
imagine  the  world  is  allied  against  them  will 
loll  away  a  dozen  hours  a  day,  throughout  an 


The  Winding  Yahara.  37 

entire  summer  season,  sitting  on  the  sun- 
heated  girders  of  an  iron  bridge  ;  yet  they 
would  strike  against  any  system  in  the  work- 
a-day  world  which  compelled  them  to  labor 
more  than  eight  hours  for  ten  hours'  pay. 
In  going  down  a  long  stretch  of  water  high- 
way, one  comes  to  believe  that  about  one- 
quarter  of  the  inhabitants,  especially  of  the 
villages,  spend  their  time  chiefly  in  fishing. 
On  a  canoe  voyage,  the  bridge  fishermen 
and  the  birds  are  the  classes  of  animated 
nature  most  frequently  met  with,  the  former 
presenting  perhaps  the  most  unique  and  varied 
specimens.  There  are  fishermen  and  fisher- 
men. I  never  could  fancy  Izaak  Walton 
dangling  his  legs  from  a  railroad  bridge, 
soaking  a  worm  at  the  end  of  a  length  of 
store  twine,  vainly  hoping,  as  the  hours  went 
listlessly  by,  that  a  stray  sucker  or  a  diminu- 
tive catfish  would  pull  the  bob  under  and 
score  a  victory  for  patience.  Now  the  use  of 
a  boat  lifts  this  sort  of  thing  to  the  dignity 
of  a  sport. 

Second  Lake  is  about  three  miles  long  by  a 
mile  in  breadth.  The  shores  are  here  and 
there  marshy  ;  but  as  a  rule  they  are  of  good, 
firm  land  with  occasional  rocky  bluffs  from  a 
dozen  to  twenty  feet  high,  rising  sheer  from 
a  narrow  beach  of  gravel.  As  we  crossed 


38  Historic  Waterways. 

over  to  gain  the  lower  Catfish,  a  calm  pre- 
vailed for  the  most  part,  and  the  awning  was 
a  decided  comfort.  Now  and  then,  however, 
a  delightful  puff  came  ruffling  the  water  astern, 
swelling  our  canvas  roof  and  noticeably  help- 
ing us  along.  Light  cloudage,  blown  swiftly 
before  upper  aerial  currents,  occasionally 
obscured  the  sun,  —  black,  gray,  and  white 
cumuli  fantastically  shaped  and  commingled, 
while  through  jagged  and  rapidly  shifting 
gaps  was  to  be  seen  with  vivid  effect,  the 
deep  blue  ether  beyond. 

The  bluffs  and  glades  are  well  wooded. 
The  former  have  escarpments  of  yellow  clay 
and  grayish  sand  and  gravel ;  here  and  there 
have  been  landslides,  where  great  trees  have 
fallen  with  the  debris  and  maintain  but  a 
slender  hold  amid  their  new  surroundings, 
leaning  far  out  over  the  water,  easy  victims  for 
the  next  tornado.  One  monarch  of  the  woods 
had  been  thus  precipitated  into  the  flood  ;  on 
one  side,  its  trunk  and  giant  branches  were 
water-soaked  and  slimy,  while  those  above 
were  dead  and  whitened  by  storm.  As  we 
approached,  scores  of  turtles,  sunning  them- 
selves on  the  unsubmerged  portion,  suddenly 
ducked  their  heads  and  slid  off  their  perches 
amid  a  general  splash,  to  hidden  grottos 
below ;  while  a  solitary  king-fisher  from  his 


The  Winding  Ya/iara.  39 

vantage  height  on  an  upper  bough  hurriedly 
rose,  and  screamed  indignance  at  our  rude 
entry  upon  his  preserve. 

A  farmer's  lad  sitting  squat  upon  his 
haunches  on  the  beach,  and  another,  lean- 
ing over  a  pasture-fence,  holding  his  head 
between  his  hands,  exhibited  lamb-like  cu- 
riosity at  the  awning-decked  canoe,  as  it 
glided  past  their  bank.  Through  openings 
in  the  forest,  we  caught  glimpses  of  rolling 
upland  pastures,  with  sod  close-cropped  and 
smooth  as  a  well-kept  lawn  ;  of  gray-blue 
fields,  recently  seeded ;  of  farmhouses,  spa- 
cious barns,  tobacco-curing  sheds, — for  this 
is  the  heart  of  the  Wisconsin  tobacco  region, 
—  and  those  inevitable  signs  of  rural  pros- 
perity, windmills,  spinning  around  by  spurts, 
obedient  to  the  breath  of  the  intermittent 
May-day  zephyr  ;  while  little  bays  opened  up, 
on  the  most  distant  shore,  enchanting  vistas 
of  blue-misted  ridges. 

At  last,  after  a  dreamy  pull  of  two  miles 
from  the  lake-head,  we  rounded  a  bold  head- 
land of  some  thirty  feet  in  height,  and  entered 
Catfish  Bay.  Ice-pushed  bowlders  strew  the 
shore,  which  is  here  a  gentle  meadow  slope, 
based  by  a  gravel  beach.  A  herd  of  cattle  are 
contentedly  browsing,  their  movements  at- 
tuned to  a  symphony  of  cow-bells  dangling 


4O  Historic  Waterways. 

from  the  necks  of  the  leaders.     The  scene  is 
pre-eminently  peaceful. 

The  Catfish  connecting  Second  Lake  with 
First,  has  two  entrances,  a  small  flat  willow 
island  dividing  them.  Through  the  eastern 
channel,  which  is  the  deepest,  the  current 
goes  down  with  a  rush,  the  obstruction  offered 
by  numerous  bowlders  churning  it  into  noisy 
rapids  ;  but  the  water  tames  down  within  a 
few  rods,  and  the  canoe  comes  gayly  gliding 
into  the  united  stream,  which  now  has  a 
placid  current  of  two  miles  per  hour,  —  quite 
fast  enough  for  canoeing  purposes.  This 
section  of  the  Catfish  is  much  more  pictur- 
esque than  the  preceding ;  the  shores  are 
firmer  ;  the  parallel  ridges  sometimes  closely 
shut  it  in,  and  the  stream,  here  four  or  five 
rods  wide,  takes  upon  itself  the  characteristics 
of  the  conventional  river.  The  weed  and  vine 
grown  banks  are  oftentimes  twenty  feet  in 
height,  with  as  sharp  an  ascent  as  can  be  com- 
fortably climbed  ;  and  the  swift-rushing  water 
is  sometimes  fringed  with  sumachs,  elders, 
and  hazel  brush,  with  here  and  there  willows, 
maples,  lindens,  and  oaks.  Occasionally  the 
river  apparently  ends  at  the  base  of  a  steep, 
earthy  bluff  ;  but  when  that  is  reached  there 
is  a  sudden  swerve  to  the  right  or  left,  with 
another  vista  of  banks,  —  sometimes  wood- 


The  Winding  Yahara.  41 

grown  to  the  water's  edge,  again  with  open- 
ings revealing  purplish-brown  fields,  neatly 
harrowed,  stretching  up  to  some  command- 
ing, forest-crowned  hill-top.  The  blossoms 
of  the  wild  grape  burden  the  air  with  sweet 
scent  ;  on  the  deep-shaded  banks,  amid  stones 
and  cool  mosses,  the  red  and  yellow  colum- 
bine gracefully  nods  ;  the  mandrake,  with  its 
glossy  green  leaves,  grows  with  tropical  luxu- 
riance ;  more  in  the  open,  appears  in  great 
profusion,  the  old  maid's  nightcap,  in  purplish 
roseate  hue ;  the  sheep-berry  shrub  is  decked 
in  masses  of  white  blossoms  ;  the  hawthorn 
flower  is  detected  by  its  sickly-sweet  scent, 
and  here  and  there  are  luxuriously-flowered 
locusts,  specimens  that  have  escaped  from 
cultivation  to  take  up  their  homes  in  this  bo- 
tanical wilderness. 

There  are  charming  rustic  pictures  at  every 
turn,  —  sleek  herds  of  cattle,  droves  of  fat 
hogs,  flocks  of  sheep  that  have  but  recently 
doffed  their  winter  suits,  well-tended  fields, 
trim-looking  wire  fences,  neat  farm-houses 
where  rows  of  milkpans  glisten  upon  sunny 
drying-benches,  farmers  and  farmers'  boys 
riding  aristocratic-looking  sulky  drags  and 
cultivators,  —  everywhere  an  air  of  agricultu- 
ral luxuriance,  rather  emphasized  by  occa- 
sional log-houses,  which  repose  as  honored 


42  Historic  Waterways. 

relics  by  the  side  of  their  pretentious  succes- 
sors, sharply  contrasting  the  wide  differences 
between  pioneer  life  and  that  of  to-day. 

The  marshes  are  few  ;  and  they  in  this 
dry  season  are  luxuriant  with  coarse,  glossy 
wild  grass,  —  the  only  hay-crop  the  far- 
mer will  have  this  year, — and  dotted  with 
clumps  of  dead  willow-trees,  which  present 
a  ghostly  appearance,  waving  their  white, 
scarred  limbs  in  the  freshening  breeze.  The 
most  beautiful  spot  on  this  section  of  the 
Catfish  is  a  point  some  eight  miles  above 
Stoughton.  The  verdure-clad  banks  are  high 
and  steep.  A  lanky  Norwegian  farmer  came 
down  an  angling  path  with  a  pail-yoke  over  his 
shoulders  to  get  washing-water  for  his  "  wo- 
man," and  told  us  that  when  this  country  was 
sparsely  settled,  a  third  of  a  century  ago, 
there  was  a  mill-dam  here.  That  was  the  day 
when  the  possession  of  water-power  meant 
more  than  it  does  in  this  age  of  steam  and 
rapid  transit,  —  the  day  when  every  mill-site 
was  supposed  to  be  a  nucleus  around  which  a 
prosperous  village  must  necessarily  grow  in 
due  time.  Nothing  now  remains  as  a  relic  of 
this  particular  fond  hope  but  great  hollows  in 
either  bank,  where  the  clay  for  dam-making 
purposes  has  been  scooped  out,  and  a  few 
rotten  piles,  having  a  slender  hold  upon  the 


T/ie  Winding  Yahara.  43 

bottom,  against  which  drift-wood  has  lodged, 
forming  a  home  for  turtles  and  clumps  of  semi- 
aquatic  grasses.  W avers,  in  a  spirit  of 

enthusiasm,  that  the  Catfish  between  Second 
and  First  Lakes  is  quite  similar  in  parts  to 
the  immortal  Avon,  upon  which  Shakespeare 
canoed  in  the  long-ago.  If  she  is  right,  then 
indeed  are  the  charms  of  Avon  worthy  the 
praise  of  the  Muses.  If  the  Catfish  of  to- 
day is  ever  to  go  down  to  posterity  on  the 
wings  of  poesy,  however,  I  would  wish  that  it 
might  be  with  the  more  euphonious  title  of 
"  Yahara,"  —  the  original  Winnebago  name. 
The  map-maker  who  first  dropped  the  liquid 
"Yahara"  for  the  rasping  "Catfish"  had  no 
soul  for  music. 

Darting  under  a  quaint  rustic  foot-bridge 
made  of  rough  poles,  which  on  its  high  trestles 
stalks  over  a  wide  expanse  of  reedy  bog  like 
a  giant  "  stick-bug,"  we  emerged  into  First 
Lake.  The  eastern  shore,  which  we  skirted, 
is  a  wide,  sandy  beach,  backed  by  meadows. 
The  opposite  banks,  two  or  three  miles  away, 
present  more  picturesque  outlines.  A  stately 
wild  swan  kept  us  company  for  over  a  mile, 
just  out  of  musket-shot,  and  finally  took  ad- 
vantage of  a  patch  of  rushes  to  stop  and  hide. 
A  small  sandstone  quarry  on  the  southeast 
shore,  with  a  lone  worker,  attracted  our  atten- 


44  Historic  Waterways. 

tion.  There  was  not  a  human  habitation  in 
sight,  and  it  seemed  odd  to  see  a  solitary  man 
engaged  in  such  labor  apparently  so  far  re- 
moved from  the  highways  of  commerce. 
The  quarryman  stuck  his  crowbar  in  a  crack 
horizontally,  to  serve  as  a  seat,  and  filled  his 
pipe  as  we  approached.  We  hailed  him  with 
inquiries,  from  the  stone  pier  jutting  into  the 
lake  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  into  which  he  was 
burrowing.  He  replied  from  his  lofty  perch, 
in  rich  Norsk  brogue,  that  he  shipped  stone 
by  barge  to  Stoughton,  and  good-humoredly 
added,  as  he  struck  a  match  and  lit  his  bowl 
of  weed,  that  he  thought  himself  altogether 
too  good  company  to  ever  get  lonesome.  We 
left  the  philosopher  to  enjoy  his  pipe  in  peace, 
and  passed  on  around  the  headland. 

An  iron  railway  bridge,  shut  in  with  high 
sides,  and  painted  a  dullish  red,  spans  the 
Lower  Catfish  at  the  outlet  of  First  Lake. 
A  country  boy,  with  face  as  dirty  as  it  was 
solemn,  stood  in  artistic  rags  at  the  base  of 
an  arch,  fishing  with  a  bit  of  hop-twine  tied 
to  the  end  of  a  lath  ;  from  a  mass  of  sedge 
just  behind  him  a  hoarse  cry  arose  at  short 
intervals. 

"  Hi,  Johnny,  what 's  that  making  the 
noise  ?  " 

"  Bird  !  "  sententiously  responded  the  stoic 


The  Winding  Yahara.  45 

youth.  He  looked  as  though  he  had  been 
bored  with  a  silly  question,  and  kept  his  eyes 
on  his  task. 

"  What  kind  of  a  bird,  Johnny  ? " 

"  D'  no  !  "  rather  raspishly.  He  evidently 
thought  he  was  being  guyed. 

We  ran  the  nose  of  the  canoe  into  the 
reeds.  There  was  a  splash,  a  wild  cry  of  alarm, 
and  up  flew  a  great  bittern.  Circling  about 
until  we  had  passed  on,  it  then  drifted  down  to 
its  former  location  near  the  uninquiring  lad, 
—  where  doubtless  it  had  a  nest  of  young, 
and  had  been  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  a  lec- 
ture on  domestic  discipline. 

Wide  marshes  again  appear  on  either  side 
of  the  stream.  There  are  great  and  small 
bitterns  at  every  view ;  plovers  daintily  pick- 
ing their  way  over  the  open  bogs,  greedily 
feeding  on  countless  snails  ;  wild  ducks  in 
plenty,  patiently  waiting  in  the  secluded 
bayous  for  the  development  of  their  young ; 
yellow-headed  troopials  flitting  freely  about, 
uttering  a  choking,  gulping  cry  ;  while  the 
pert  little  wren,  with  his  smart  cock-tail, 
views  the  varied  scene  from  his  perch  on  a 
lofty  rush,  jealously  keeping  watch  and  ward 
over  his  ball-like  castle,  with  its  secret  gate, 
hung  among  the  reeds  below. 

But   interspersing  the   marshes   there  are 


46  Historic  Waterways. 

often  stretches  of  firm  bank  and  delightfully 
varied  glimpses  of  hillside  and  wood.  Three 
miles  above  Stoughton,  we  stopped  for  supper 
at  the  edge  of  a  glade,  near  a  quaint  old  bridge. 
While  seated  on  the  smooth  sward,  beside 
our  little  spread,  there  came  a  vigorous  rust- 
ling among  the  branches  of  the  trees  that 
overhang  the  country  road  which  winds  down 
the  opposite  slope  to  the  water's  edge  to  take 
advantage  of  the  crossing.  A  gypsy  wagon, 
with  a  high,  rounded,  oil-cloth  top  soon 
emerged  from  the  forest,  and  was  seen  to 
have  been  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 
Halting  at  one  side  of  the  highway,  three 
men  and  a  boy  jumped  out,  unhitched  the 
horses  at  the  pole  and  the  jockeying  stock  at 
the  tail-board,  and  led  them  down  to  water. 
Two  women  meanwhile  set  about  getting  sup- 
per, and  preparations  were  made  for  a  night 
camp.  We  confessed  to  a  touch  of  sympathy 
with  our  new  neighbors  on  the  other  shore, 
for  we  felt  as  though  gypsying  ourselves.  The 
hoop  awning  on  the  canoe  certainly  had  the 
general  characteristics  of  a  gypsy-wagon 
top  ;  we  knew  not  and  cared  not  where  night 
might  overtake  us  ;  we  were  dependent  on 
the  country  for  our  provender;  were  at  the 
mercy  of  wind,  weather,  and  the  peculiarities 
of  our  chosen  highway ;  and  had  deliberately 


The  Winding  Yakara.  47 

turned  our  backs  on  home  for  a  season  of  un- 
trammeled  communion  with  nature. 

It  was  during  a  golden  sunset  that,  push- 
ing on  through  a  great  widespread,  through 
which  the  channel  doubles  and  twists  like  a 
scotched  snake,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  little 
city  of  Stoughton.  First,  the  water-works 
tower  rises  above  the  mass  of  trees  which 
embower  the  settlement.  Then,  on  nearer 
approach,  through  rifts  in  the  woodland  we 
catch  glimpses  of  some  of  the  best  outlying 
residences,  most  of  them  pretty,  with  well- 
kept  grounds.  Then  come  the  church-spires, 
the  ice-houses,  the  barge-dock,  and  with  a 
spurt  we  sweep  alongside  the  foundry  of 
Mandt's  wagon-works.  Depositing  our  oars, 
paddle,  blankets,  and  supplies  in  the  office,  the 
canoe  was  pulled  up  on  the  grass  and  pad- 
locked to  a  stake.  The  street  lamps  were 
lighting  as  we  registered  at  the  inn. 

Stoughton  has  about  two  thousand  inhab- 
itants. A  walk  about  town  in  the  evening, 
revealed  a  number  of  bright,  busy  shops, 
chiefly  kept  by  Norwegians,  who  predominate 
in  this  region.  Nearly  every  street  appears 
to  end  in  one  of  Mandt's  numerous  factory 
yards,  and  the  wagon-making  magnate  seems 
to  control  pretty  much  the  entire  river  front 
here. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BARBED-WIRE    FENCES. 

WE  were  off.  in  the  morning,  after  an 
early  breakfast  at  the  Stoughton  inn. 
Our  host  kindly  sent  down  his  porter  to  help 
us  over  the  mill-dam, — our  first  and  easiest 
portage,  and  one  of  the  few  in  which  we 
received  assistance  of  any  kind.  Below  this, 
as  below  all  of  the  dams  on  the  river,  there 
are  broad  shallows.  The  water  in  the  stream, 
being  at  a  low  stage,  is  mainly  absorbed  in 
the  mill-race,  and  the  apron  spreads  the  slight 
overflow  evenly  over  the  width  of  the  bed,  so 
that  there  is  left  a  wide  expanse  of  gravel  and 
rocks  below  the  chute,  which  is  not  covered 
sufficiently  deep  for  navigating  even  our  little 
craft,  drawing  but  five  inches  when  fully 
loaded.  We  soon  grounded  on  the  shallows 
and  I  was  obliged  to  get  out  and  tow  the 
lightened  boat  to  the  tail  of  the  race,  where 
deeper  water  was  henceforth  assured.  This 


Barbed-  Wire  Fences.  49 

experience  became  quite  familiar  before  the 
end  of  the  trip.-  I  had  fortunately  brought  a 
pair  of  rubbers  in  my  satchel,  and  found  them 
invaluable  as  wad  ing-shoes,  where  the  river 
bottom  is  strewn  with  sharp  gravel  and  slimy 
round-heads. 

Below  Stoughton  the  river  winds  along  in 
most  graceful  curves,  for  the  most  part  be- 
tween banks  from  six  to  twenty  feet  high, 
with  occasional  pocket-marshes,  in  which  the 
skunk-cabbage  luxuriates.  The  stream  is  of- 
ten thickly  studded  with  lily-pads,  which  the 
wind,  blowing  fresh  astern,  frequently  ruffles 
so  as  to  give  the  appearance  of  rapids  ahead, 
inducing  caution  where  none  is  necessary. 
But  every  half-mile  or  so  there  are  genuine 
little  rapids,  some  of  them  requiring  care  to 
successfully  shoot ;  in  low  water  the  canoe 
goes  bumping  along  over  the  small  moss- 
grown  rocks,  and  now  and  then  plumps  sol- 
idly on  a  big  one ;  when  the  stream  is  turbid, 
—  as  often  happens  below  a  pasture,  where 
the  cattle  stir  up  the  bank  mud,  —  the  danger 
of  being  overturned  by  scarcely  submerged 
bowlders  is  imminent. 

There  are  some  decidedly  romantic  spots, 

where  little  densely-wooded  and  grape-tangled 

glens  run  off  at  right  angles,  leading  up  to 

the  bases  of  commanding  hillocks,  which  they 

4 


50  Historic  Waterways. 

drain  ;  or  where  the  noisy  little  river,  five  or 
six  rods  wide,  goes  swishing  around  the  foot 
of  a  precipitous,  bush-grown  bluff.  It  is  no- 
ticeable that  in  such  beauty-spots  as  these  are 
generally  to  be  found  poverty-stricken  cabins, 
the  homes  of  small  fishermen  and  hunters  ; 
while  the  more  generous  farm-houses  seek  the 
fertile  but  prosaic  openings. 

All  of  a  sudden,  around  a  lovely  bend,  a 
barbed-wire  fence  of  four  strands  savagely  dis- 
puted the  passage.  A  vigorous  back-water 
stroke  alone  saved  us  from  going  full  tilt  into 
the  bayonets  of  the  enemy.  We  landed,  and 
there  was  a  council  of  war.  As  every  stream 
in  Wisconsin  capable  of  floating  a  saw-log  is 
"  navigable  "  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  it  is  plain 
that  this  obstruction  is  an  illegal  one.  Being 
an  illegal  fence,  it  follows  that  any  canoeist  is 
entitled  to  clip  the  wires,  if  he  does  not  care 
to  stop  and  prosecute  the  fencers  for  barring 
his  way.  The  object  of  the  structure  is  to 
prevent  cattle  from  walking  around  through 
the  shallow  river  into  neighboring  pastures. 
Along  the  upper  Catfish,  where  boating  is 
more  frequently  indulged  in,  farmers  ac- 
complish the  same  object  by  fencing  in  a  few 
feet  of  the  stream  parallel  with  the  shore. 
But  below  Stoughton,  where  canoeing  is 
seldom  practiced,  the  cattle-owners  run  their 


Barbed-  Wire  Fences.  5 1 

fences  directly  across  the  river  as  a  measure 
of  economy.  Taking  into  consideration  the 
fact  that  the  lower  Catfish  is  seldom  used  as 
a  highway,  we  concluded  that  we  would  be 
charitable  and  leave  the  fences  intact,  getting 
under  or  over  them  as  best  we  might.  I  am 
afraid  that  had  we  known  that  twenty-one  of 
these  formidable  barriers  were  before  us,  the 
council  would  not  have  agreed  on  so  concili- 
atory a  campaign. 

Having  taken  in  our  awning  and  disposed 
of  our  baggage  amidships,  so  that  nothing  re- 
mained above  the  gunwale,  W ,  kneeling, 

took  the  oars  astern,  while  I  knelt  in  the  bow 
with  the  paddle  borne  like  a  battering-ram. 
Pushing  off  into  the  channel  we  bore  down  on 
the  centre  of  the  works,  which  were  strong 
and  thickly-posted,  with  wires  drawn  as  tight 
as  a  drum-string.  Catching  the  lower  strand 
midway  between  two  posts,  on  the  blade  end 
of  the  paddle,  the  speed  of  the  canoe  was 
checked.  Then,  seizing  that  strand  with  my 
right  hand,  so  that  the  thick-strewn  barbs 
came  between  my  fingers,  I  forced  it  up  to 
the  second  strand,  and  held  the  two  rigidly 
together,  thus  making  a  slight  arch.  The 
canoe  being  crowded  down  into  the  water  by 
sheer  exercise  of  muscle,  I  crouched  low  in 
the  bow,  at  the  same  time  forcing  the  canoe 


52  Historic  Waterways. 

under  and  forward  through  the  arch.     When 

half-way  through,  W was  able  similarly  to 

clutch  the  wires,  and  perform  the  same  office 
for  the  stern.  This  operation,  ungraceful  but 
effective,  was  frequently  repeated  during  the 
day.  When  the  current  is  swift  and  the  wind 
fresh  a  special  exertion  is  necessary  on  the 
part  of  the  stern  oar  to  keep  the  craft  at  right 
angles  with  the  fence,  —  the  tendency  being, 
as  soon  as  the  bow  is  snubbed,  to  drift  along- 
side and  become  entangled  in  the  wires,  with 
the  danger  of  being  either  badly  scratched  or 
upset.  It  is  with  a  feeling  of  no  slight  relief 
that  a  canoeist  emerges  from  a  tussle  with  a 
barbed-wire  fence ;  and  if  hands,  clothing, 
and  boat  have  escaped  without  a  scratch,  he 
may  consider  himself  fortunate,  indeed.  Be- 
fore the  day  was  through,  when  our  twenty- 
one  fences  had  been  conquered  without  any 
serious  accident,  it  was  unanimously  voted 
that  the  exercise  was  not  to  be  recommended 
to  those  weak  in  muscle  or  patience. 

Eight  miles  below  Stoughton  is  Dunkirk. 
There  is  a  neat  frame  grist-mill  there  ;  and 
up  a  gentle  slope  to  the  right  are  four  or  five 
weather-beaten  farm-houses,  in  the  corners  of 
the  cross-roads.  It  was  an  easy  portage  at 
the  dam.  After  pushing  through  the  shallows 
below  with  some  difficulty,  we  ran  in  under 


Barbed-  Wire  Fences.  5  3 

the  shadow  of  a  substantial  wagon-bridge,  and 
beached.  Going  up  to  the  corners,  we  filled 
the  canteen  with  ice-cold  water  from  a  moss- 
grown  well,  and  interviewed  the  patriarchal 
miller,  who  assured  us  that  "  nigh  onter  a 
dozen  year  ago,  Dunkirk  had  a  bigger  show 
for  growin'  than  Stoughton,  but  the  railroad 
went  'round  us." 

A  few  miles  down  stream  and  we  come  to 
Stebbinsville.  The  water  is  backset  by  a 
mill-dam  for  two  miles,  forming  a  small  lake. 
The  course  now  changing,  the  wind  came 
dead  ahead,  and  we  rowed  down  to  the  dam  in 
a  rolling  sea,  with  much  exertion.  The  river 
is  six  rods  wide  here,  flowing  between  smooth, 
well-rounded,  grass-grown  banks,  from  fifteen 
to  thirty  feet  in  height,  the  fields  on  either  side 
sloping  up  to  wood-crowned  ridges.  There 
are  a  mill  and  two  houses  at  Stebbinsville, 
and  the  country  round  about  has  a  prosperous 
appearance.  A  tall,  pleasant-spoken  young 
miller  came  across  the  road-bridge  and  talked 
to  us  about  the  crops  and  the  river,  while  we 
made  a  comfortable  portage  of  five  rods,  up 
the  grassy  bank  and  through  a  close-cropped 
pasture,  down  to  a  sequestered  little  bay  at 
the  tail  of  an  abandoned  race,  where  the  spray 
of  the  falls  spattered  us  as  we  reloaded.  We 
pushed  off,  with  the  joint  opinion  that  Steb- 


54  Historic  Waterways. 

binsville  was  a  charming  little  place,  with  ideal 
riverside  homes,  that  would  be  utterly  spoiled 
by  building  the  city  on  its  site  which  the 
young  man  said  his  father  had  always  hoped 
would  be  established  there.  A  quarter  of  a 
mile  below,  around  the  bend,  is  a  disused 
mill,  thirty  feet  up,  on  the  right  bank.  There 
is  a  suspended  platform  over  a  ravine,  to  one 
side  of  the  building,  and  upon  its  handrail 
leaned  two  dusty  millers,  who  had  doubtless 
hastened  across  from  the  upper  mill,  to  watch 
the  progress  down  the  little  rapids  here  of 
what  was  indeed  a  novel  craft  to  these  waters. 
They  waved  their  caps  and  gave  us  a  cheery 
shout  as  we  quickly  disappeared  around 
another  curve ;  but  while  it  still  rung  in  our 
ears  we  were  suddenly  confronted  by  one  of 
the  tightest  fences  on  the  course,  and  had 
neither  time  nor  disposition  to  return  the 
salute. 

And  so  we  slid  along,  down  rapids,  through 
long  stretches  of  quiet  water  and  scraping 
over  shallows,  plying  both  oars  and  paddle, 
while  now  and  then  "making"  a  fence  and 
comparing  its  savagery  with  that  of  the  pre- 
ceding one.  Here  and  there  the  high  vine-clad 
banks,  from  overshadowing  us  would  irregu- 
larly recede,  leaving  little  meadows,  full  of 
painted-cups,  the  wild  rose-colored  phlox  and 


Barbed-Wire  Fences.  55 

saxifrage  ;  or  bits  of  woodland  in  the  dryer 
bottoms,  radiant,  amid  the  underbrush,  with 
the  daisy,  cinque-foil,  and  puccoon.  King- 
fishers and  blue  herons  abound.  Great  turtles, 
disturbed  by  the  unwonted  splash  of  oars, 
slide  down  high,  sunny  banks  of  sandj  where 
they  have  been  to  lay  their  eggs,  and  amid  a 
cloud  of  dust  shuffle  off  into  the  water,  their 
castle  of  safety.  These  eggs,  so  trustfully  left 
to  be  hatched  by  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  form 
toothsome  food  for  coons  and  skunks,  which 
in  turn  fall  victims  to  farmers'  lads,  —  as  wit- 
ness the  rows  of  peltries  stretched  inside 
out  on  shingles,  and  tacked  up  on  the  sunny 
sides  of  the  barns  and  woodsheds  along  the 
river  highway. 

As  we  begin  to  approach  the  valley  of  the 
Rock,  the  hills  grow  higher,  groups  of  red 
cedar  appear,  the  banks  of  red  clay  often  at- 
tain the  height  of  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  broken 
by  deep,  staring  gullies  and  wooded  ravines, 
through  which  little  brooklets  run,  the  output 
of  back-country  springs ;  while  the  pocket- 
meadows  are  less  frequent,  although  more 
charmingly  diversified  as  to  color  and  back- 
ground. 

We  had  our  mid-day  lunch  on  a  pleasant 
bank,  that  had  been  covered  earlier  in  the 
season  with  hepatica,  blood-root,  and  dicentra, 


56  Historic  Waterways. 

and  was  now  resplendent  with  Solomon's  seal, 
the  dark-purple  water-leaf,  and  graceful  maiden- 
hair ferns,  with  here  and  there  a  dogwood  in 
full  bloom.  Behind  us  were  thick  woods  and 
an  overlooking  ridge ;  opposite,  a  meadow- 
glade  on  which  herds  of  cattle  and  black  hogs 
grazed.  A  bell  cow  waded  into  the  water, 
followed  by  several  other  members  of  the 
herd,  and  the  train  pensively  proceeded  in 
single  file  diagonally  across  the  shallow  stream 
to  another  feeding-ground  below.  The  leader's 
bell  had  a  peculiarly  mournful  note,  and  the 
scene  strongly  reminded  one  of  an  ecclesias- 
tical procession. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  little 
village  of  Fulton  was  reached.  It  is  a  dead- 
alive,  moss-grown  settlement,  situated  on  a 
prairie,  through  which  the  river  has  cut  a 
deep  channel.  There  are  a  cheese-factory, 
a  grist-mill,  a  church,  a  school-house,  three  or 
four  stores,  and  some  twenty-five  houses,  with 
but  a  solitary  boat  in  sight,  and  that  of  the 
punt  variety.  It  was  recess  at  the  school  as 
we  rowed  past,  and  boys  and  girls  were  chiefly 
engaged  in  climbing  the  trees  which  cluster 
in  the  little  schoolhouse  yard.  A  chorus  of 
shouts  and  whistles  greeted  us  from  the  leafy 
perches,  in  which  we  could  distinguish  "  Shoot 
the  roof  ! "  —  an  exclamation  called  forth  by 


Barbed-  Wire  Fences.  5  7 

the  awning,  which  doubtless  seemed  the  chief 
feature  of  our  outfit,  viewed  from  the  top  of 
the  bank. 

At  the  mill-dam,  a  dozen  lazy,  shiftless 
fellows  were  fishing  at  the  foot  of  the  chute, 
and  stared  at  our  movements  with  expression- 
less eyes.  The  portage  was  somewhat  diffi- 
cult, being  over  a  high  bank,  across  a  rocky 
road,  and  down  through  a  stretch  of  bog. 

When  we  had  completed  the  carry,  W 

waited  in  the  canoe  while  I  went  up  to  the 
fishermen  for  information  as  to  the  lay  of  the 
country. 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  mouth  of  the  Catfish, 
my  friend  ? "  I  asked  the  most  intelligent 
member  of  the  party. 

"  D  'no  !  Never  was  thar."  He  jerked  in 
his  bait,  to  pull  off  a  weed  that  had  become 
entangled  in  it,  and  from  the  leer  he  gave  his 
comrades  it  was  plain  that  I  had  struck  the 
would-be  wag  of  the  village. 

"  How  far  do  you  think  it  is  ?  "  I  insisted, 
curious  to  see  how  far  he  would  carry  his 
obstinacy. 

"  Don'  think  nuthin'  'bout  't ;  don'  care  t' 
know." 

"  Did  n't  you  ever  hear  any  one  say  how 
far  it  is  ? "  and  I  sat  beside  him  on  the  stone 
pier,  as  if  I  had  come  to  stay. 


58  Historic  Waterways. 

"Nah!" 

"  Suppose  you  were  placed  in  a  boat  here 
and  had  to  float  down  to  the  Rock,  how  long 
do  you  imagine  you  'd  be  ?  " 

"Aint  no  man  goin'  t'  place  me  in  no  boat ! 
No  siree  !  "  pugnaciously. 

"  Don't  you  ever  row  ? " 

"  Nah  !  "  contemptuously ;  "  what  I  want  of 
a  boat  ?  Bridge  's  good  'nough  fer  us  fellers, 
a-fishin1." 

"  Whose  boat  is  that,  over  there,  on  the 
shore  ?  " 

"  Schoolmaster's.  He 's  a  dood,  he  is. 
Bridge  is  n't  rich  'nough  fer  his  blood.  Boats 
is  fer  doods."  And  with  this  withering  re- 
mark he  relapsed  into  so  intent  an  observation 
of  his  line  that  I  thought  it  best  to  disturb 
him  no  longer. 

Below  Fulton,  the  stream  is  quite  swift  and 
the  scenery  more  rugged,  the  evidences  of 
disastrous  spring  overflows  and  back-water 
from  the  Rock  being  visible  on  every  hand. 
At  five  o'clock,  we  came  to  a  point  where  the 
river  divides  into  three  channels,  there  being 
a  clump  of  four  small  islands.  A  barbed-wire 
fence,  the  last  we  were  fated  to  meet,  was 
stretched  across  each  channel.  Selecting  the 
central  mouth, — for  this  is  the  delta  of  the 
Catfish,  —  we  shot  down  with  a  rush,  but  were 


Barbed- Wire  Fences.  59 

soon  lodged  on  a  sandbank.  It  required 
wading  and  much  pushing  and  twisting  and 
towing  before  we  were  again  off,  but  in  the 
length  of  a  few  rods  more  we  swung  free 
into  the  Rock,  which  was  to  be  our  high- 
way for  over  two  hundred  miles  more  of 
canoe  travel. 

The  Rock  River  is  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  wide  at  this  point,  and  comes  down  with 
a  majestic  sweep  from  the  north,  having  its 
chief  source  in  the  gloomily  picturesque  Lake 
Koshkonong.  The  banks  of  the  river  at  and 
below  the  mouth  of  the  Catfish,  are  quite  impos- 
ing, rising  into  a  succession  of  graceful,  round- 
topped  mounds,  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  feet 
high,  and  finely  wooded  except  where  cleared 
for  pasture  or  as  the  site  of  farm-buildings. 
While  the  immediate  edges  of  the  stream  are 
generally  firm  and  grass-grown,  with  occa- 
sional gravelly  beaches,  there  are  frequent 
narrow  strips  of  marsh  at  the  bases  of  the 
mounds,  especially  on  the  left  bank  where 
innumerable  springs  send  forth  trickling  rills 
to  feed  the  river.  A  stiff  wind  up-stream 
had  broken  the  surface  into  white  caps,  and 
more  than  counteracted  the  force  of  the  lazy 
current,  so  that  progress  now  depended  upon 
vigorous  exercise  at  the  oars  and  paddle. 

Three   miles    above   Janesville    is    Pope's 


60  Historic  Waterways. 

Springs,  a  pleasant  summer  resort,  with  white 
tents  and  gayly  painted  cottages  commingled. 
It  is  situated  in  a  park-like  wood,  on  the  right 
bank,  while  directly  opposite  are  some  bold, 
rocky  cliffs,  or  palisades,  their  feet  laved  in 
the  stream.  We  spread  our  supper  cloth  on 
the  edge  of  a  wheat-field,  in  view  of  the  pretty 
scene.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  a  bank 
of  roseate  clouds,  and  shooting  up  broad, 
sharply  defined  bands  of  radiance  nearly  to 
the  zenith.  The  wind  was  blowing  cold, 
wraps  were  essential,  and  we  were  glad  to  be 
on  our  way  once  more,  paddling  along  in  the 
dying  light,  past  palisades  and  fields  and 
meadows,  reaching  prosperous  Janesville,  on 
her  rolling  prairie,  just  as  dusk  was  thickening 
into  dark. 


CHAPTER   III. 

AN  ILLINOIS  PRAIRIE  HOME. 

WE  had  an  early  start  from  the  hotel 
next  morning.  A  prospect  of  the 
situation  at  the  upper  Janesville  dam,  from  a 
neighboring  bridge,  revealed  the  fact  that 
the  mill-race  along  the  left  bank  afforded  the 
easiest  portage.  Reloading  our  craft  at  the 
boat-renter's  staging  where  it  had  passed 
the  night,  we  darted  across  the  river,  under 
two  low-hung  bridges,  keeping  well  out  of 
the  overflow  current  and  entered  the  race, 
making  our  carry  over  a  steep  and  rocky 
embankment. 

Below,  after  passing  through  the  centre  of 
the  city,  the  river  widens  considerably,  as  it 
cuts  a  deep  channel  through  the  fertile  prairie, 
and  taking  a  sudden  bend  to  the  southwest, 
becomes  a  lake,  formed  by  back-water  from 
the  lower  dam.  The  wind  was  now  dead 
ahead  again,  and  fierce.  White  caps  came 


62  Historic  Waterways. 

savagely  rolling  up  stream.  The  pull  down 
brought  out  the  rowing  muscles  to  their  full- 
est tension.  The  canoe  at  times  would  ap- 
pear to  scarcely  creep  along,  although  oars 
and  paddle  would  bend  to  their  work. 

The  race  of  the  carding-mill,  which  we 
were  now  approaching,  is  by  the  left  bank, 
the  rest  of  the  broad  river  —  fully  a  third  of 
a  mile  wide  here  —  being  stemmed  by  a  pon- 
derous, angling  dam,  the  shorter  leg  of  which 
comes  dangerously  close  to  the  entrance  of 
the  race,  which  it  nearly  parallels.  Over- 
head, fifty  feet  skyward,  a  great  railway  bridge 
spans  the  chasm.  The  disposition  of  its 
piers  leaves  a  rowing  channel  but  two  rods 
wide,  next  the  shore.  Through  this  a  deep, 
swift  current  flows,  impelling  itself  for  the 
most  part  over  the  short  leg  of  the  chute,  with 
a  deafening  roar.  Its  backset,  however,  is 
caught  in  the  yawning  mouth  of  the  race.  It 
so  happens  then  that  from  either  side  of  an 
ugly  whirling  strip  of  doubting  water,  parallel 
with  the  shorter  chute,  the  flood  bursts  forth, 
—  to  the  left  plunging  impetuously  over  the 
apron  to  be  dashed  to  vapor  at  its  foot ;  to 
the  right  madly  rushing  into  the  narrow  race, 
to  turn  the  wheels  of  the  carding-mill  half  a 
mile  below.  This  narrow  channel,  under  the 
bridge  and  next  the  shore,  of  which  I  have 


An  Illinois  Prairie  Home.        63 

spoken,  is  the  only  practicable  entrance  to 
the  race. 

We  had  landed  above  and  taken  a  pano- 
ramic view  of  the  situation  from  the  deck  of 
the  bridge  ;  afterward  had  descended  to  the 
flood-gates  at  the  entrance  of  the  race,  for 
detailed  inspection  and  measurements.  One 
of  the  set  of  three  gates  was  partly  raised,  the 
bottom  being  but  three  feet  above  the  boiling 
surface,  while  the  great  vertical  iron  beams 
along  which  the  cog-wheels  work  were  not 
over  four  feet  apart.  It  would  require  steady 
hands  to  guide  the  canoe  to  the  right  of  the 
whirl,  where  the  flood  hesitated  between  two 
destinations,  and  finally  to  shoot  under  the 
uplifted  gate,  which  barely  gave  room  in  either 
height  or  breadth  for  the  passage  of  the  boat. 
But  we  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the 
shoot  was  far  more  dangerous  in  appearance 
than  in  reality,  and  that  it  was  preferable  to  a 
long  and  exceedingly  irksome  portage. 

So  we  determined  to  make  the  attempt,  and 
walked  back  to  the  canoe.  Disposing  our 
baggage  in  the  centre,  as  in  the  barbed-wire 

experience  of  the  day  before,  W again  took 

the  oars  astern  and  I  the  paddle  at  the  bow. 
A  knot  of  men  on  the  bridge  had  been  watch- 
ing our  movements  with  interest,  and  waved 
their  hats  at  us  as  we  came  cautiously  creeping 


64  Historic  Waterways. 

along  the  shore.  We  went  under  the  bridge 
with  a  swoop,  waited  till  we  were  within  three 
rods  of  the  brink  of  the  thundering  fall,  and 
then  strained  every  muscle  in  sending  the  canoe 
shooting  off  at  an  angle  into  the  waters  bound 
for  the  race.  We  went  down  to  the  gate  as 
if  shot  out  of  a  cannon,  but  the  little  craft  was 
easily  controlled,  quickly  obeying  every  stroke 
of  the  paddle.  Catching  a  projecting  timber, 
it  was  easy  to  guide  ourselves  to  the  opening. 
We  lay  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and 
with  uplifted  hands  clutched  the  slimy  gate ; 
slowly,  hand  over  hand,  we  passed  through 
under  the  many  internal  beams  and  rods  of 
the  structure,  with  the  boiling  flood  under  us, 
making  an  echoing  roar,  amid  which  we  were 
obliged  to  fairly  shout  our  directions  to  each 
other.  In  the  last  section  the  release  was 
given  ;  we  were  fairly  hurled  into  daylight  on 
the  surface  of  the  mad  torrent,  and  were  many 
a  rod  down  the  race  before  we  could  recover 
our  seats.  The  men  on  the  bridge,  joined  by 
others,  now  fairly  yelled  themselves  hoarse  over 
the  successful  close  of  what  was  apparently 
a  hazardous  venture,  and  we  waved,  acknowl- 
edgments with  the  paddle,  as  we  glided  away 
under  the  willows  which  overhang  the  long 
and  narrow  canal.  At  the  isolated  mill, 
where  there  is  one  of  the  easiest  portages  on 


An  Illinois  Prairie  Home.         65 

the  route,  the  hands  came  flocking  by  dozens 
to  the  windows  to  see  the  craft  which  had 
invaded  their  quiet  domain. 

The  country  toward  Beloit  becomes  more 
hilly,  especially  upon  the  left  bank,  along 
which  runs  the  Chicago  and  Northwestern 
railway,  all  the  way  down  from  Janesville. 
At  the  Beloit  paper-mill,  which  was  reached 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  it  was  found 
that  owing  to  the  low  stage  of  water  one  end 
of  the  apron  projected  above  the  flood.  With 
some  difficulty  as  to  walking  on  the  slimy 
incline,  we  portaged  over  the  face  of  the  dam 
and  went  down  stream  through  the  heart  of 
the  pretty  little  college  town,  getting  more 
or  less  picturesque  back-door  views  of  the 
domestic  life  of  the  community. 

Beloit  being  on  the  State  line,  we  had  now 
entered  Illinois.  For  several  miles  the  river 
is  placid  and  shallow,  with  but  a  feeble  current. 
Islands  begin  to  appear,  dividing  the  channel 
and  somewhat  perplexing  canoeists,  it  being 
often  quite  difficult  to  decide  which  route  is 
the  best ;  as  a  rule,  one  is  apt  to  wish 
that  he  had  taken  some  other  than  the  one 
selected. 

The  dam  at  Rockton  was  reached  in  a  two 
hours'  pull.  It  was  being  repaired,  stone  for 
the  purpose  being  quarried  on  a  neighboring 
5 


66  Historic  Waterways. 

bank  and  transported  to  the  scene  of  action 
on  a  flat-boat.  We  had  been  told  that  we 
could  save  several  miles  by  going  down  the 
race,  which  cuts  the  base  of  a  long  detour. 
But  the  boss  of  the  dam-menders  assured  us 
that  the  race  was  not  safe,  and  that  we  would 
"  get  in  a  trap  "  if  we  attempted  it.  Deeming 
discretion  the  better  part  of  valor,  with  much 
difficulty  we  lifted  the  canoe  over  the  high, 
jagged,  stone  embankment  and  through  a  bit 
of  tangled  swamp  to  the  right,  and  took  the 
longest  way  around.  It  was  four  or  five  miles 
by  the  bend  to  the  village  of  Rockton,  whose 
spires  we  could  see  at  the  dam,  rising  above 
a  belt  of  intervening  trees.  It  being  our  first 
detour  of  note,  we  were  somewhat  discouraged 
at  having  had  so  long  a  pull  for  so  short  a 
vantage  ;  but  we  became  well  used  to  such 
experiences  long  before  our  journey  was 
over.  It  was  not  altogether  consoling  to  be 
informed  at  Rockton  — which  is  a  smart  little 
manufacturing  town  of  a  thousand  souls  — 
that  the  race  was  perfectly  practicable  for 
canoes,  and  the  tail  portage  easy. 

Beaching  near  the  base  of  a  fine  wagon- 
bridge  which  here  spans  the  Rock,  we  went 
up  to  a  cluster  of  small  houses  on  the  bank 
opposite  the  town,  to  have  some  tea  steeped, 
our  prepared  stock  being  by  this  time  ex- 


An  Illinois  Prairie  Home.        67 

hausted.  The  people  were  all  employed  in 
the  paper-mills  in  the  village,  but  one  good 
woman  chanced  to  be  at  home  for  the  after- 
noon, and  cheerfully  responded  to  our  request 
for  service.  A  young,  neat,  and  buxom  little 
woman  she  was,  though  rather  sad-eyed  and 
evidently  overworked  in  the  family  struggle 
for  existence.  She  assured  us  that  she  now- 
adays never  went  upon  the  water  in  an  open 
boat,  for  she  had  "  three  times  been  near 
drowndid  "  in  her  life,  which  she  thought  was 
"  warnin'  enough  for  one  body."  Inquiry  de- 
veloped that  her  first  "  warnin'  "  consisted  of 
having  been,  when  she  was  "  a  gal  down  in 
Kansis,"  taken  for  a  row  in  a  leaky  boat  ; 
the  water  came  in  half-way  up  to  the  thwarts, 
and  would  have  eventually  swamped  the  craft 
and  drowned  its  occupants,  in  perhaps  half 
an  hour's  time,  if  her  companion  had  not 
luckily  bethought  himself  to  run  in  to  shore 
and  land.  Another  time,  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  out  rowing,  when  a  stern-wheel 
river  steamer  came  along,  and  the  swell  in 
her  wake  washed  the  row-boat  atop  of  a  log 
raft,  and  "  she  stuck  there,  ma'am,  would  ye 
believe,  and  we  'd  'a*  drowndid  sure,  with  a 
storm  a-comin'  up,  had  n't  my  brother-in-law, 
that  was  then  a-courtin'  of  sister  Jane,  come 
off  in  a  dug-out  and  took  us  in."  Her  last 


68  Historic  Waterways. 

and  most  harrowing  experience  was  in  a  boat 
on  the  Republican  River  in  Kansas.  She  and 
another  woman  were  out  when  a  storm  came 
up,  and  white-capped  waves  tossed  the  little 
craft  about  at  will  ;  but  fortunately  the  blow 
subsided,  and  the  women  regained  pluck 
enough  to  take  the  oars  and  row  home  again. 
The  eyes  of  the  paper-maker's  wife  were  suf- 
fused with  tears,  as,  seated  in  her  rocking- 
chair  by  the  kitchen  stove  and  giving  the  tea- 
pot an  occasional  shake,  doubtless  to  hasten 
the  brew,  she  related  these  thrilling  tales  of 
adventure  by  flood,  and  called  us  to  witness 
that  thrice  had  Providence  directly  interposed 
in  her  behalf.  We  were  obliged  to  acknowl- 
edge ourselves  much  impressed  with  the 
gravity  of  the  dangers  she  had  so  success- 
fully passed  through.  Her  sympathy  with 
the  perils  which  we  were  braving,  in  what 
she  was  pleased  to  call  our  singular  journey, 
was  so  great  that  the  good  woman  declined 
to  accept  pay  for  having  steeped  our  tea  in  a 
most  excellent  manner,  and  bade  us  an  affect- 
ing God-speed. 

We  had  our  supper,  graced  with  the  hot 
tea,  on  a  pretty  sward  at  the  river  end  of  the 
quiet  lane  just  around  the  corner;  while  a 
dozen  little  children  in  pinafores  and  short 
clothes,  perched  on  a  neighboring  fence, 


An  Illinois  Prairie  Home.        69 

watched  and  discussed  us  as  eagerly  as 
though  we  were  a  circus  caravan  halting  by 
the  wayside  for  refreshment.  The  paper- 
maker's  wife  also  came  out,  just  as  we  were 
packing  up  for  the  start,  and  inspected  the 
canoe  in  some  detail.  Her  judgment  was 
that  in  her  giddiest  days  as  an  oarswoman, 
she  would  certainly  never  have  dared  to  set 
foot  in  such  a  shell.  She  watched  us  off,  just 
as  the  sun  was  disappearing,  and  the  last 
Rockton  object  we  saw  was  our  tender- 
hearted friend  standing  on  the  beach  at  the 
end  of  her  lane,  both  hands  shading  her  eyes, 
as  she  watched  us  fade  away  in  the  gloam- 
ing. I  have  no  doubt  she  has  long  ago  given 
us  up  for  lost,  for  her  last  words  were,  "  I  've 
heerd  'em  tell  it  was  a  riskier  river  than  any 
in  Kansis,  'tween  here  an'  Missip'  ;  tek  care 
ye  don't  git  drowndid  !  " 

In  the  soft  evening  shadows  it  was  cool 
enough  for  heavy  wraps.  In  fact,  for  the 

greater  part  of  the  day  W had  worn  a 

light  shoulder  cape.  We  had  a  beautiful 
sunset,  back  of  a  group  of  densely  timbered 
islands.  We  would  have  been  sorely  tempted 
to  camp  out  on  one  of  these,  but  the  night 
was  setting  in  too  cold  for  sleeping  in  the 
open  air,  and  we  had  no  tent  with  us. 

The   twilight   was   nearly    spent,  and    the 


7O  Historic  Waterways. 

banks  and  now  frequent  islands  were  so 
heavily  wooded  that  on  the  river  it  was  rap- 
idly becoming  too  dark  to  navigate  among 

the  shallows  and  devious  channels.     W 

volunteered  to  get  out  and  look  for  a  farm- 
house, for  none  could  be  seen  from  our  hollow 
way.  So  she  landed  and  got  up  into  some 
prairie  wheatfields  back  away  from  the  bank. 
After  a  half-mile's  walk  parallel  with  the  river 
she  sighted  a  prosperous-looking  establish- 
ment, with  a  smart  windmill,  large  barns,  and 
a  thrifty  orchard,  silhouetted  against  the  fast- 
fading  sunset  sky.  The  signal  was  given, 
and  the  prow  of  the  canoe  was  soon  resting 
on  a  steep,  gravely  beach  at  the  mouth  of  a 
ravine.  Armed  with  the  paddle,  for  a  pos- 
sible encounter  with  dogs,  we  went  up  through 
the  orchard  and  a  timothy-field  sopping  with 
dew,  scaled  the  barnyard  fence,  passed  a  big 
black  dog  that  growled  savagely,  but  was  by 
good  chance  chained  to  an  old  mowing-ma- 
chine, walked  up  to  the  kitchen  door  and 
boldly  knocked. 

No  answer.  The  stars  were  coming  out, 
the  shadows  darkening,  night  was  fairly  upon 
us,  and  shelter  must  be  had,  if  we  were  ob- 
liged to  sleep  in  the  barn.  The  dog  reared 
on  his  hind  legs,  and  fairly  howled  with  rage. 
A  row  of  well-polished  milk-cans  on  a  bench 


An  Illinois  Prairie  Home.        71 

by  the  windmill  well,  and  the  general  air  of 
thrifty  neatness  impelled  us  to  persevere.  An 
old  German,  with  kindly  face  and  bushy  white 
hair,  finally  came,  cautiously  peering  out  be- 
neath a  candle  which  he  held  above  his  head. 
English  he  had  none,  and  our  German  was 
too  fresh  from  the  books  to  be  reliable  in 
conversation.  However,  we  mustered  a  few 
stereotyped  phrases  from  the  "  familiar  con- 
versations "  in  the  back  of  the  grammar, 
which  served  to  make  the  old  man  smile,  and 
disappearing  toward  the  cattle-sheds  he  soon 
returned  with  his  daughter  and  son-in-law,  a 
cheerful  young  couple  who  spoke  good  Eng- 
lish, and  assured  us  of  welcome  and  a  bed. 
They  had  been  out  milking  by  lantern-light 
when  interrupted,  and  soon  rejoined  us  with 
brimming  pails. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  feel  quite  at  home 
with  these  simple,  good-hearted  folk.  They 
had  but  recently  purchased  the  farm  and  were 
strangers  in  the  community.  The  old  man 
lived  with  his  other  children  at  Freeport,  and 
was  there  only  upon  a  visit.  The  young  peo- 
ple, natives  of  Illinois,  were  lately  married, 
their  wedding-trip  having  been  made  to  this 
house,  where  they  had  at  once  settled  down 
to  a  thrifty  career,  surrounded  with  quite 
enough  comforts  for  all  reasonable  demands, 


72  Historic  Waterways. 

and  a  few  simple  luxuries.     W declared 

the  kitchen  to  be  a  model  of  neatness  and 
convenience;  and  the  sitting-room,  where  we 
passed  the  evening  with  our  modest  enter- 
tainers,—  who  appeared  quite  well  posted  on 
current  news  of  general  importance, —  showed 
evidences  of  being  in  daily  use.  They  were 
devout  Catholics,  and  I  was  pleased  to  find 
the  patriarch  drifting  down  the  river  of  time 
with  a  heartfelt  appreciation  of  the  benefits 
of  democracy,  fully  cognizant  of  what  Ameri- 
can institutions  had  done  for  him  and  his. 
Immigrating  in  the  noon-tide  of  life  and  set- 
tling in  a  German  neighborhood,  he  had  found 
no  need  and  had  no  inclination  to  learn  our 
language.  But  he  had  prospered  from  the 
start,  had  secured  for  his  children  a  good 
education  at  the  common  schools,  had  imbued 
them  with  the  spirit  of  patriotism,  had  seen 
them  marry  happily  and  with  a  bright  future, 
and  at  night  he  never  retired  without  utter- 
ing a  bedside  prayer  of  gratitude  that  God 
had  turned  his  footsteps  to  blessed  America. 
As  the  old  man  told  me  his  tale,  with  his 
daughter's  hands  resting  lovingly  in  his  while 
she  served  as  our  interpreter,  and  contrasted 
the  hard  lot  of  a  German  peasant  with  the  in- 
dependence of  thought  and  speech  and  action 
vouchsafed  the  German-American  farmer,  who 


An  Illinois  Prairie  Home.        73 

can  win  competence  in  a  state  of  freedom, 
I  felt  a  thrill  of  patriotism  that  would  have 
been  the  making  of  a  Fourth-of-July  orator. 
I  wished  that  thousands  such  as  he  originally 
was,  still  dragging  out  an  existence  in  the 
fatherland,  could  have  listened  to  my  aged 
friend  and  followed  in  his  footsteps. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   HALF-WAY   HOUSE. 

r  I  ^HE  spin  down  to  Roscoe  next  morning 
-I-  was  delightful  in  every  respect.  The 
air  was  just  sharp  enough  for  vigorous  exer- 
cise. These  were  the  pleasantest  hours  we 
had  yet  spent.  The  blisters  that  had  troubled 
us  for  the  first  three  days  were  hardening  into 
callosities,  and  arm  and  back  muscles,  which 
at  first  were  sore  from  the  unusually  heavy 
strain  upon  them,  at  last  were  strengthened 
to  their  work.  Thereafter  we  felt  no  physi- 
cal inconvenience  from  our  self-imposed  task. 
At  night,  after  a  pull  of  eleven  or  twelve 
hours,  relieved  only  by  the  time  spent  in 
lunching,  in  which  we  hourly  alternated  at 
the  oars  and  paddle,  slumber  came  as  a  most 
welcome  visitation,  while  the  morning  ever 
found  us  as  fresh  as  at  the  start.  Let  those 
afflicted  with  insomnia  try  this  sort  of  life. 
My  word  for  it,  they  will  not  be  troubled 


The  Half -Way  House.  75 

so  long  as  the  canoeing  continues.  Every 
muscle  of  the  body  moves  responsive  to  each 
pull  of  the  oars  or  sweep  of  the  paddle  ;  while 
the  mental  faculties  are  kept  continually  on 
the  alert,  watching  for  shallows,  snags,  and 
rapids,  in  which  operation  a  few  days'  experi- 
ence will  render  one  quite  expert,  though 
none  the  less  cautious. 

As  we  get  farther  down  into  the  Illinois 
country,  the  herds  of  live-stock  increase  in 
size  and  number.  Cattle  may  be  seen  by 
hundreds  at  one  view,  dotted  all  over  the 
neighboring  hills  and  meadows,  or  dreamily 
standing  in  the  cooling  stream  at  sultry  noon- 
day. Sheep,  in  immense  flocks,  bleat  in  deaf- 
ening unison,  the  ewes  and  their  young  being 
particularly  demonstrative  at  our  appearance, 
and  sometimes  excitedly  following  us  along 
the  banks.  Droves  of  black  hogs  and  shoats 
are  ploughing  the  sward  in  their  search  for 
sweet  roots,  or  lying  half-buried  in  the  wet 
sand.  Horses,  in  familiar  groups,  quickly 
lift  their  heads  in  startled  wonder  as  the  cano- 
pied canoe  glides  silently  by,  —  then  suddenly 
wheel,  kick  up  their  heels,  sound  a  snort  of 
alarm,  and  dash  off  at  a  thundering  gallop, 
clods  of  turf  filling  the  air  behind  them. 
There  are  charming  groves  and  parks  and 
treeless  downs,  and  the  river  cuts  through  the 


76  Historic  Waterways. 

alluvial  soil  to  a  depth  of  eight  and  ten  feet, 
throwing  up  broad  beaches  on  either  side. 

At  Roscoe,  three  or  four  miles  below  our 
morning's  starting-point,  there  is  a  collection 
of  three  or  four  neat  farm-houses,  each  with 
its  spinning  windmill. 

Latham  Station,  nine  miles  below  Rockton, 
was  reached  at  ten  o'clock.  The  post-office  is 
called  Owen.  There  is  a  smart  little  depot  on 
the  Chicago,  Milwaukee,  and  St.  Paul  railway 
line,  two  general  stores,  and  a  half-dozen  cot- 
tages, with  a  substantial-looking  creamery, 
where  we  obtained  buttermilk  drawn  fresh 
from  one  of  the  mammoth  churns.  The  con- 
cern manufactures  from  three  hundred  to  nine 
hundred  pounds  per  day,  according  to  the 
season,  shipping  chiefly  to  New  York  city. 
Leaning  over  the  hand-rail  which  fences  off 
the  "making"  room,  and  gossiping  with  the 
young  man  in  charge,  I  conjured  up  visions 
of  the  days  when,  as  a  boy  on  the  farm,  I  used 
to  spend  many  weary,  almost  tearful  hours, 
pounding  an  old  crock  churn,  in  which  the 
butter  would  always  act  like  a  balky  horse 
and  refuse  to  "come"  until  after  a  long  series 
of  experimental  coaxing.  Nowadays,  rustic 
youths  luxuriously  ride  behind  the  plough,  the 
harrow,  the  cultivator,  the  horse-rake,  the  hay- 
loader,  and  the  self-binding  harvester,  while 


The  Half -Way  House.  77 

the  butter-making  is  farmed  out  to  a  factory 
where  the  thing  is  done  by  steam.  The 
farmer's  boy  of  the  future  will  live  in  a  world 
darkened  only  by  the  frown  of  the  district 
schoolmaster  and  the  intermittent  round  of 
stable  chores. 

At  Latham  Station  we  encountered  the 
first  ferry-boat  on  our  trip,  —  a  flat-bottomed 
scow  with  side-rails,  attached  by  ropes  and 


FARE. 

Foot  Passengere      .     .  10  cts. 

Man  &  Horse      .     .     .  15  ct. 

single  Carriage     .     .     .  10  c. 

double       "  ...  15  c 

each  Passinger     .     .     .  .50 

Night  Raites    .     .  Double  Fare. 

All  persons 
Are  cautioned 
Againts  useing 
this  Boat  with  Out 
Permistion  from 
the  Owners 


pulleys  to  a  suspended  wire  cable,  and  work- 
ing diagonally,  with  the  force  of  the  current. 
A  sign  conspicuously  displayed  on  the  craft 
bore  the  above  legend. 


78  Historic  Waterways. 

From  the  time  we  had  entered  Illinois, 
the  large,  graceful,  white  blossoms  of  the 
Pennsylvanian  anemone  and  the  pink  and 
white  fringe  of  the  erigeron  Canadense  had 
appeared  in  great  abundance  upon  the  river 
banks,  while  the  wild  prairie  rose  lent  a  deli- 
cate beauty  and  fragrance  to  the  scene.  On 
sandy  knolls,  where  in  early  spring  the  anem- 
one patens  and  crowfoot  violets  had  thrived 
in  profusion,  were  now  to  be  seen  the  geum 
triflorum  and  the  showy  yellow  puccoon;  the 
long-flowered  puccoon,  with  its  delicate  pale 
yellow,  crape-like  blossom,  was  just  putting  in 
an  appearance ;  and  little  white,  star-shaped 
flowers,  which  were  strangers  to  us  of  Wis- 
consin, fairly  dotted  the  green  hillsides,  min- 
gled in  striking  contrast  with  dwarf  blue  mint. 
Bevies  of  great  black  crows,  sitting  in  the  tops 
of  dead  willow-trees  or  circling  around  them, 
rent  the  air  with  sepulchral  squawks.  Men 
and  boys  were  cultivating  in  the  cornfields, 
the  prevalent  drought  painfully  evidenced  by 
the  clouds  of  gray  dust  which  enveloped  them 
and  their  teams  as  they  stirred  up  the  brittle 
earth. 

There  was  now  a  fine  breeze  astern,  and 
the  awning,  abandoned  during  the  head  winds 
of  the  day  before,  was  again  welcomed  as  the 
sun  mounted  to  the  zenith.  At  2.30  P.  M., 


The  Half-  Way  House.  79 

we  were  in  busy  Rockford,  where  the  banks 
are  twenty  or  twenty-five  feet  high,  with  roll- 
ing prairies  stretching  backward  to  the  hori- 
zon, except  where  here  and  there  a  wooded 
ridge  intervenes.  Rockford  is  the  metropolis 
of  the  valley  of  the  Rock.  It  has  twenty-two 
thousand  inhabitants,  with  many  elegant  man- 
sions visible  from  the  river,  and  evidences 
upon  every  hand  of  that  prosperity  which 
usually  follows  in  the  train  of  varied  manufac- 
turing enterprises. 

There  are  numerous  mills  and  factories  along 
both  sides  of  the  river,  and  a  protracted  in- 
spection of  the  portage  facilities  was  neces- 
sary before  we  could  decide  on  which  bank 
to  make  our  carry.  The  right  was  chosen. 
The  portage  was  somewhat  over  two  ordinary 
city  blocks  in  length,  up  a  steep  incline  and 
through  a  road-way  tunnel  under  a  great  flour- 
ing mill.  We  had  made  nearly  half  the  dis- 
tance, and  were  resting  for  a  moment,  when 
a  mill-driver  kindly  offered  the  use  of  his 
wagon,  which  was  gratefully  accepted.  We 
were  soon  spinning  down  the  tail  of  the  race, 
a  half-dozen  millers  waving  a  "  Chautauqua 
salute  "  with  as  many  dusty  flour-bags,  and  in 
ten  minutes  more  had  left  Rockford  out  of 
sight. 

Several  miles  below,  there  are  a  half-dozen 


8o  Historic  Waterways. 

forested  islands  in  a  bunch,  some  of  them  four 
or  five  acres  in  extent,  and  we  puzzled  over 
which  channel  to  take,  —  the  best  of  them 
abounding  in  shallows.  The  one  down  which 
the  current  seemed  to  set  the  strongest  was 
selected,  but  we  had  not  proceeded  over  half 
a  mile  before  the  trees  on  the  banks  began  to 
meet  in  arches  overhead,  and  it  was  evident 
that  we  were  ascending  a  tributary.  It  proved 
to  be  the  Cherry  River,  emptying  into  the 
main  stream  from  the  east.  The  wind,  now 
almost  due-west,  had  driven  the  waves  into 
the  mouth  of  the  Cherry,  so  that  we  mistook 
this  surface  movement  for  the  current.  Com- 
ing to  a  railway  bridge,  which  we  knew  from 
our  map  did  not  cross  the  Rock,  our  course 
was  retraced,  and  after  some  difficulty  with 
snags  and  gravel-spits,  we  were  once  more 
upon  our  proper  highway,  trending  to  the 
southwest. 

Supper  was  eaten  upon  the  edge  of  a  large 
island,  several  miles  farther  down  stream, 
in  the  shade  of  two  wide-spreading  locusts. 
Opposite  are  some  fine,  eroded  sandstone  pali- 
sades, which  formation  had  been  frequently 
met  with  during  the  day, —  sometimes  on 
both  sides  of  the  river,  but  generally  on  the 
left  bank,  which  is,  as  a  rule,  the  most  pic- 
turesque along  the  entire  course. 


The  Half-  Way  House.  8 1 

It  was  still  so  cold  when  evening  shadows 
thickened  that  camping  out,  with  our  meagre 
preparations  for  it,  seemed  impracticable  ;  so 
we  pushed  on  and  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for 
some  friendly  farm-house  at  which  to  quarter 
for  the  night.  The  houses  in  the  thickly- 
wooded  bottoms,  however,  were  generally 
quite  forbidding  in  appearance,  and  the  sun 
had  gone  down  before  we  sighted  a  well-built 
stone  dwelling  amid  a  clump  of  graceful  ever- 
greens. It  seemed,  from  the  river,  to  be  the 
very  embodiment  of  comfortable  neatness  ;  but 
upon  ascending  the  gentle  slope  and  fighting 
off  two  or  three  mangy  curs  which  came 
snarling  at  our  heels,  we  found  the  structure 
merely  a  relic  of  gentility.  There  was  scarcely 
a  whole  pane  of  glass  in  the  house,  there  were 
eight  or  ten  wretchedly  dirty  and  ragged  chil- 
dren, the  parents  were  repulsive  in  appear- 
ance and  manner,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  interior 
presented  a  picture  of  squalor  which  would 
have  shocked  a  city  missionary.  The  stately 
stone  house  was  a  den  of  the  most  abject  and 
shiftless  poverty,  the  like  of  which  one  could 
seldom  see  in  the  slums  of  a  metropolis. 
•These  people  were  in  the  midst  of  a  splendid 
farming  country,  had  an  abundance  of  pure 
air  and  water  at  command,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  excuse  for  their  condition.  Drink 
6 


82  Historic  Waterways. 

and  laziness  were  doubtless  the  besetting  sins 
in  this  uncanny  home.  Making  a  pretense  of 
inquiring  the  distance  to  Byron,  the  next  vil- 
lage below,  we  hurried  from  the  accursed 
spot. 

A  half-hour  later  we  reached  the  high 
bridge  of  the  Chicago,  Milwaukee  and  St. 
Paul  railway,  above  Byron,  and  ran  our  bow 
on  a  little  beach  at  the  base  of  the  left  bank, 
which  is  here  thirty  feet  high.  A  section- 
man  had  a  little  cabin  hard  by,  and  his  gaunt, 
talkative  wife,  with  a  chubby  little  boy  by  her 
side,  had  been  keenly  watching  our  approach 
from  her  garden-fence.  She  greeted  us  with 
a  shrill  but  cheery  voice  as  we  clambered  up 
a  zigzag  path  and  joined  her  upon  the  edge  of 
the  prairie. 

"  Good  ev'nin',  folks  !  Whar  'n  earth  d'  ye 
come  from  ? " 

We  enlightened  her  in  a  few  words. 

"  Don't  mean  t'  say  ye  come  all  the  way 
from  Weesconsin  a'  down  here  in  that  thing  ?  " 
pointing  down  at  the  canoe,  which  certainly 
looked  quite  small,  at  that  depth,  in  the 
dim  twilight. 

"  Certainly ;  why  not  ? " 

"Ye '11  git  drowndid,  an'  I'm  not  mistakin, 
afore  ye  git  to  Byron." 

"  River  dangerous,  ma'am  ?  " 


The  Half -Way  House.  83 

"  Dang'rous  ain't  no  name  for  't.  There 
was  a  young  feller  drowndid  at  this  here 
bridge  las'  spring.  The  young  feller  he 
worked  at  the  bridge-mendin',  bein'  a  car- 
penter,—  he  called  himself  a  carpenter,  but 
he  war  n't  no  great  fist  at  carpenterin',  an'  I 
know  it,  —  and  he  boarded  up  at  Byron.  A 
'nsurance  agint  kim  'long  and  got  Rollins,  — 
the  young  feller  his  name  was  Abe  Rollins, 
an'  he  was  a  bach,  —  to  promise  to  'sure  his 
life  for  a  thousand  dollars,  which  was  to  go  t' 
his  sister,  what  takes  in  washin',  an'  her  man 
ran  away  from  her  las'  year  an'  nobody  knows 
where  he  is,  —  which  I  says  is  good  riddance, 
but  she  takes  on  as  though  she  had  los'  some- 
body worth  cryin'  over :  there 's  no  account- 
in'  for  tastes.  The  agint  says  to  Rollins  to 
go  over  to  the  doctor's  ofc'  to  git  'xamined 
and  Rollins  says,  '  No,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  git 
'xamined  till  I  clean  off;  I  '11  go  down  an'  take 
a  swim  at  the  bridge  and  then  come  back  and 
strip  for  the  doctor.'  An'  Rollins  he  took 
his  swim  and  got  sucked  down  inter  a  hole  just 
yonder  down  there,  by  the  openin'  of  Still- 
man's  Creek,  and  he  was  a  corpse  when  they 
hauled  him  out,  down  off  Byron ;  an'  he  never 
hollered  once  but  jist  sunk  like  a  stone  with 
a  cramp  ;  an'  his  folks  never  got  no  'nsurance 
money  at  all,  for  lackin'  the  doctor's  c'tifi- 


84  Historic  Waterways. 

cate.  An'  it 's  heaps  o'  folks  git  drowndid  in 
this  river,  an'  nobody  ever  hears  of  'em  agin  ; 
an'  I  would  n't  no  more  step  foot  in  that  boat 
nor  the  biggest  ship  on  the  sea,  an'  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  do  it,  ma'am  ! " 

No  doubt  the  good  woman  would  have 
rattled  on  after  this  fashion  for  half  the  night, 
but  we  felt  obliged,  owing  to  the  rapidly  in- 
creasing darkness,  to  interrupt  her  with  geo- 
graphical inquiries.  She  assured  us  that 
Byron  was  distant  some  five  or  six  miles  by 
river,  with,  so  far  as  she  had  heard,  many 
shallows,  whirlpools,  and  snags  en  route; 
while  by  land  the  village  was  but  a  mile  and 
a  quarter  across  the  prairie,  from  the  bridge. 
We  accordingly  made  fast  for  the  night 
where  we  had  landed,  placed  our  heaviest  bag- 
gage in  the  tidy  kitchen-sitting-room-parlor 
of  our  voluble  friend,  and  trudged  off  over  the 
fields  to  Byron,  —  a  solitary  light  in  a  window 
and  the  occasional  practice-note  of  a  brass 
band,  borne  to  us  on  the  light  western  breeze, 
being  our  only  guides. 

After  a  deal  of  stumbling  over  a  rough  and 
ill-defined  path,  which  we  could  distinguish 
by  the  sense  of  feeling  alone,  we  finally 
reached  the  exceedingly  quiet  little  village, 
and  by  dint  of  inquiry  from  house  to  house, — 
in  most  of  which  the  denizens  seemed  pre- 


The  Half -Way  House.  85 

paring  to  retire  for  the  night,  —  found  the  inn 
which  had  been  recommended  by  the  section- 
man's  wife  as  the  best  in  town.  It  was  the 
only  one.  There  were  several  commercial 
travelers  in  the  place,  and  the  hostelry  was 
filled.  But  the  landlord  kindly  surrendered 
to  us  his  own  well-appointed  chamber,  above 
an  empty  store  where  the  village  band  was 
tuning  up  for  Decoration  Day.  It  seemed 
appropriate  enough  that  there  should  be  music 
to  greet  us,  for  we  were  now  one  hundred 
and  thirty-four  miles  from  Madison,  and 
practically  half  through  our  voyage  to  the 
Mississippi. 


CHAPTER  V. 

GRAND    DETOUR   FOLKS. 

WE  tramped  back  to  the  bridge  in  high 
spirits  next  morning,  over  the  flower- 
strewn  prairie.  The  section-man's  wife  was 
on  hand,  with  her  entire  step-laddered  brood 
of  six,  to  see  us  off.  As  we  carried  down  our 
traps  to  the  beach  and  repacked,  she  kept  up 
a  continuous  strain  of  talk,  giving  us  a  most 
edifying  review  of  her  life,  and  especially  the 
particulars  of  how  she  and  her  "  man  "  had 
first  romantically  met,  while  he  was  a  gravel- 
train  hand  on  a  far  western  railroad,  and  she 
the  cook  in  a  portable  construction-barracks. 
Stillman's  Creek  opens  into  the  Rock  from 
the  east,  through  a  pleasant  glade,  a  few  rods 
below  the  bridge.  We  took  a  pull  up  this 
historic  tributary  for  a  half-mile  or  more. 
It  is  a  muddy  stream,  some  two  and  a  half 
rods  wide,  cutting  down  for  a  half-dozen  feet 
through  the  black  soil.  The  shores  are  gen- 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  87 

erally  well  fringed  with  heavy  timber,  espe- 
cially upon  the  northern  bank,  while  the  land 
to  the  south  and  southwest  stretches  upward, 
in  gentle  slopes,  to  a  picturesque  rolling  prai- 
rie, abounding  in  wooded  knolls.  It  was  in 
the  large  grove  on  the  north  bank,  near  its 
junction  with  the  Rock,  that  Black  Hawk,  in 
the  month  of  May,  1832,  parleyed  with  the 
Pottawattomies.  It  was  here  that  on  the 
1 4th  of  that  month  he  learned  of  the  treach- 
ery of  Stillman's  militiamen,  and  at  once 
made  that  famous  sally  with  his  little  band 
of  forty  braves  which  resulted  in  the  rout  of 
the  cowardly  whites,  who  fled  pell-mell  over 
the  prairie  toward  Dixon,  asserting  that 
Black  Hawk  and  two  thousand  blood-thirsty 
warriors  were  sweeping  northern  Illinois  with 
the  besom  of  destruction.  The  country  round 
about  appears  to  have  undergone  no  appre- 
ciable change  in  the  half-century  intervening 
between  that  event  and  to-day.  The  topo- 
graphical descriptions  given  in  contempora- 
neous accounts  of  Stillman's  flight  will  hold 
good  now,  and  we  were  readily  able  to  pick 
out  the  points  of  interest  on  the  old  battle- 
field. 

Returning  to  the  Rock,  we  made  excellent 
progress.  The  atmosphere  was  bracing ;  and 
there  being  a  favoring  northwest  breeze,  our 


88  Historic  Waterways, 

awning  was  stretched  over  a  hoop  for  a  sail. 
The  banks  were  now  steep  inclines  of  white 
sand  and  gravel.  It  was  like  going  through 
a  railroad  cut.  But  in  ascending  the  sides,  as 
we  did  occasionally,  to  secure  supplies  from 
farm-houses  or  refill  our  canteen  with  fresh 
water,  there  were  found  broad  expanses  of 
rolling  prairie.  The  farm  establishments  in- 
crease in  number  and  prosperity.  Windmills 
may  be  counted  by  the  scores,  the  cultiva- 
tion of  enormous  cornfields  is  everywhere  in 
progress,  and  cattle  are  more  numerous  than 
ever. 

Three  or  four  miles  above  Oregon  the  banks 
rise  to  the  dignity  of  hills,  which  come  sweep- 
ing down  "  with  verdure  clad  "  to  the  very 
water's  edge,  and  present  an  inspiring  picture, 
quite  resembling  some  of  the  most  charming 
stretches  of  the  Hudson.  At  the  entrance  to 
this  lovely  vista  we  encountered  a  logy  little 
pleasure-steamer  anchored  in  the  midst  of 
the  stream,  which  is  here  nearly  half  of  a  mile 
wide,  for  the  river  now  perceptibly  broadens. 
The  captain,  a  ponderous  old  sea-dog,  wear- 
ing a  cowboy's  hat  and  having  the  face  of  an 
operatic  pirate,  with  a  huge  pipe  between 
his  black  teeth,  sat  lounging  on  the  bulwark, 
watching  the  force  of  the  current,  into  which 
he  would  listlessly  expectorate.  He  was  at 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  89 

first  inclined  to  be  surly,  as  we  hauled  along- 
side and  checked  our  course  ;  but  gradually 
softened  down  as  we  drew  him  out  in  con- 
versation, and  confided  to  us  that  he  had  in 
earlier  days  "  sailed  the  salt  water,"  a  circum- 
stance of  which  he  seemed  very  proud.  He 
also  gave  us  some  "  pointers  on  the  lay  o'  the 
land,"  as  he  called  them,  for  our  future  guid- 
ance down  the  river,  —  one  of  which  was  that 
there  were  "  dandy  sceneries  "  below  Oregon, 
in  comparison  with  which  we  had  thus  far 
seen 'nothing  worthy  of  note.  As  for  himself, 
he  said  that  his  place  on  the  neighboring  shore 
was  connected  by  telephone  with  Oregon,  and 
his  steamer  frequently  transported  pleasure 
parties  to  points  of  interest  above  the  dam. 

Ganymede  Spring  is  on  the  southeast  bank, 
at  the  base  of  a  lofty  sandstone  bluff,  a  mile  or 
so  above  Oregon.  From  the  top  of  the  bluff, 
which  is  ascended  by  a  succession  of  steep 
flights  of  scaffolding  stairs,  a  magnificent 
bird's-eye  view  is  attainable  of  one  of  the 
finest  river  and  forest  landscapes  in  the 
Mississippi  basin.  The  grounds  along  the 
riverside  at  the  base  are  laid  out  in  grace- 
ful carriage  drives  ;  and  over  the  head  of 
a  neatly  hewn  basin,  into  which  gushes  the 
copious  spring,  is  a  marble  slab  thus  in- 
scribed :  — 


90  Historic  Waterways. 


GANYMEDE'S    SPRINGS, 

named  by 
MARGERET  FULLER  (Countess  D.  Ossoli,) 

who  named  this  bluff 

EAGLE'S    NEST, 

&  beneath  the  cedars  on  its  crest  wrote 

"  Ganymede  to  his  Eagle," 

July  4,  1843. 


Oregon  was  reached  just  before  noon.  A 
walk  through  the  business  quarter  revealed  a 
thrifty,  but  oldish-looking  town  of  about  two 
thousand  inhabitants.  The  portage  on  the 
east  side,  around  a  flouring-mill  dam,  in- 
volved a  hard  pull  up  the  gravelly  bank  thirty 
feet  high,  and  a  haul  of  two  blocks'  length 
along  a  dusty  street. 

There  was  a  fine  stretch  of  eroded  pali- 
sades in  front  of  the  island  on  which  we 
lunched.  The  color  effect  was  admirable,  — 
patches  of  gray,  brown,  white,  and  old  gold, 
much  corroded  with  iron.  Vines  of  many 
varieties  dangle  from  earth-filled  crevices, 
and  swallows  by  the  hundreds  occupy  the 
dimples  neatly  hollowed  by  the  action  of 
the  water  in  some  ancient  period  when  the 
stream  was  far  broader  and  deeper  than  now. 

But  at  times,  even  in  our  day,  the  Rock  is 


Grand  Detoiir  Folks.  9 1 

a  raging  torrent.  The  condition  of  the  trees 
along  the  river  banks  and  on  the  thickly- 
strewn  island  pastures,  shows  that  not  many 
months  before  it  must  have  been  on  a  wild 
rampage,  for  the  great  trunks  are  barked  by 
the  ice  to  the  height  of  fifteen  feet  above  the 
present  water-level.  Everywhere,  on  banks 
and  islands,  are  the  evidences  of  disastrous 
floods,  and  the  ponderous  ice-breakers  above 
the  bridges  give  one  an  awesome  notion  of  the 
condition  of  affairs  at  such  a  time.  Farmers 
assured  us  that  in  the  spring  of  1887  the 
water  was  at  the  highest  stage  ever  recorded 
in  the  history  of  the  valley.  Many  of  the 
railway  bridges  barely  escaped  destruction, 
while  the  numerous  river  ferries  and  the  low 
country  bridges  in  the  bayous  were  destroyed 
by  scores.  The  banks  were  overflowed  for 
miles  together,  and  back  in  the  country  for 
long  distances,  causing  the  hasty  removal 
of  families  and  live-stock  from  the  bottoms  ; 
while  ice  jams,  forming  at  the  heads  of  the 
islands,  would  break,  and  the  shattered  floes 
go  sweeping  down  with  terrific  force,  crush- 
ing the  largest  trees  like  reeds,  tearing  away 
fences  and  buildings,  covering  islands  and 
meadows  with  deep  deposits  of  sand  and 
mud,  blazing  their  way  through  the  forested 
banks,  and  creating  sad  havoc  on  every  hand. 


92  Historic  Waterways. 

We  were  amply  convinced,  by  the  thousands 
of  broken  trees  which  littered  our  route, 
the  snags,  the  mud-baked  islands,  the  fre- 
quent stretches  of  sadly  demoralized  bank 
that  had  not  yet  had  time  to  reweave  its 
charitable  mantle  of  verdure,  that  the  Rock, 
on  such  a  spring  "  tear,"  must  indeed  be  a 
picture  of  chaos  broken  loose.  This  ex- 
plained why  these  hundreds  of  beautiful  and 
spacious  islands  —  many  of  them  with  charm- 
ing combinations  of  forest  and  hillock  and 
meadow,  and  occasionally  enclosing  pretty 
ponds  blushing  with  water-lilies  —  are  none 
of  them  inhabited,  but  devoted  to  the  pasture 
of  cattle,  who  swim  or  ford  the  intervening 
channels,  according  to  the  stage  of  the  flood  ; 
also  why  the  picturesque  bottoms  on  the 
main  shore  are  chiefly  occupied  by  the  poor- 
est class  of  farmers,  who  eke  out  their  meagre 
incomes  with  the  spoils  of  the  gun  and 
line. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  five  when  we  beached 
at  the  upper  ferry-landing  at  Grand  Detour. 
It  is  a  little,  tumble-down  village  of  one  or 
two  small  country  stores,  a  church,  and  a 
dozen  modest  cottages ;  there  is  also,  on  the 
river  front,  a  short  row  of  deserted  shops, 
their  paintless  battlement-fronts  in  a  sadly 
collapsed  condition,  while  hard  by  are  the 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  93 

ruins  of  two  or  three  dismantled  mills.  The 
settlement  is  on  a  bit  of  prairie  at  the  base  of 
the  preliminary  flourish  of  the  "  big  bend  "  of 
the  Rock,  —  hence  the  name,  Grand  Detour, 
a  reminiscence  of  the  early  French  explorers. 
The  foot  of  the  peninsula  is  but  half  a  mile 
across,  while  the  distance  around  by  river  to 
the  lower  ferry,  on  the  other  side  of  the  vil- 
lage is  four  miles.  Having  learned  that  the 
bottoms  below  here  were,  for  a  long  distance, 
peculiarly  gloomy  and  but  sparsely  inhabited, 
we  thought  it  best  to  pass  the  night  at  Grand 
Detour.  Bespeaking  accommodations  at  the 
tavern  and  post-office  combined,  we  rowed 
around  the  bend  to  the  lower  landing,  through 
some  lovely  stretches  of  river  scenery,  in 
which  bold  palisades  and  delightful  little 
meadows  predominated. 

The  walk  back  to  the  village  was  through 
a  fine  park  of  elms.  The  stage  was  just  in 
from  Dixon,  with  the  mail.  There  was  an 
eager  little  knot  of  villagers  in  the  cheerful 
sitting-room  of  our  homelike  inn,  watching 
the  stout  landlady  as  she  distributed  it  in 
a  checker-board  rank  of  glass-faced  boxes 
fenced  off  in  front  of  a  sunny  window.  It 
did  not  appear  that  many  of  those  who  over- 
looked the  distribution  of  the  mail  had  been 
favored  by  their  correspondents.  They  were 


94  Historic  Waterways. 

chiefly  concerned  in  seeing  who  did  get  letters 
and  papers,  and  in  "passin'  the  time  o'  day," 
as  gossiping  is  called  in  rural  communities. 
Seated  in  a  darkened  corner,  waiting  pa- 
tiently for  supper,  the  announcement  of  which 
was  an  hour  or  more  in  coming,  we  were  much 
amused  at  the  mirror  of  local  events  which 
was  unconsciously  held  up  for  us  by  these 
loungers  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages,  who 
fairly  filled  the  room,  and  oftentimes  waxed 
hot  in  controversy. 

The  central  theme  of  conversation  was  the 
preparations  under  way  for  Decoration  Day, 
which  was  soon  to  arrive.  Grand  Detour 
was  to  be  favored  with  a  speaker  from  Dixon, 
—  "a  reg'lar  major  from  the  war,  gents,  an' 
none  o'  yer  m'lish  fellers  !  "  an  enthusiastic 
old  man  with  a  crutch  persisted  in  announc- 
ing. There  were  to  be  services  at  the  church, 
and  some  exercises  at  the  cemetery,  where  lie 
buried  the  half-dozen  honored  dead,  Grand 
Detour's  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  the  Union. 
The  burning  question  seemed  to  be  whether 
the  village  preacher  would  consent  to  offer 
prayer  upon  the  occasion,  if  the  church  choir 
insisted  on  being  accompanied  on  the  brand- 
new  cabinet  organ  which  the  congregation 
had  voted  to  purchase,  but  to  which  the  pas- 
tor and  one  of  the  leading  deacons  were  said 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  95 

to  be  bitterly  opposed,  as  smacking  of  world- 
liness  and  antichrist.  Only  the  evening 
before,  this  deacon,  armed  with  a  sledge- 
hammer and  rope,  had  been  seen  to  go  to 
the  sanctuary  in  company  with  his  "  hired 
man,"  and  enter  through  one  of  the  windows, 
which  they  pried  up  for  the  purpose.  A  good 
gossip,  who  lived  hard  by,  closely  watched 
such  extraordinary  proceedings.  There  was 
a  great  noise  within,  then  some  planks  were 
pitched  out  of  the  window,  soon  followed  by 
the  deacon  and  his  man.  The  window  was 
shut  down,  the  planks  thrown  atop  of  the 
horse-shed  roof,  and  the  men  disappeared. 
Investigation  in  the  morning  by  the  witness 
revealed  the  fact  that  the  choir-seats  and  the 
organ-platform  had  been  torn  down  and  re- 
moved. Here  was  a  pretty  how  d'  do !  The 
wiry,  raspy  little  woman,  with  her  gray  finger- 
curls  and  withered,  simpering  smile,  had,  with 
great  forbearance,  kept  her  choice  bit  of  news 
to  herself  till  "  post-office  time."  Sitting  in 
a  big  rocking-chair  close  to  the  delivery  win- 
dow, knitting  vigorously  on  an  elongated 
stocking,  she  demurely  asserted  that  she 
"  never  wanted  to  say  nothin'  'gin'  nobody, 
or  to  hurt  nobody's  feelin's,"  and  then  de- 
tailed the  entire  circumstance  to  the  patrons 
of  the  office  as  they  came  in.  The  excite- 


g6  Historic  Waterways. 

ment  created  by  the  story,  which  doubtless 
lost  nothing  in  the  telling,  was  at  fever-heat. 
We  were  sorely  tempted  to  remain  over  till 
Decoration  Day, — when,  it  was  freely  pre- 
dicted, there  "  would  be  some  folks  as  'd  wish 
they  'd  never  been  born,"  — and  see  the  out- 
come of  this  tempest  in  a  teapot.  But  our 
programme,  unfortunately,  would  not  admit 
of  such  a  diversion. 

Others  came  and  went,  but  the  gossipy 
little  body  with  the  gray  curls  rocked  on, 
holding  converse  with  both  post-mistress  and 
public,  keeping  a  keen  eye  on  the  character 
of  the  mail  matter  obtained  by  the  villagers 
and  neighboring  farmers,  and  freely  comment- 
ing on  it  all ;  so  that  new-comers  were  kept 
quite  well-informed  as  to  the  correspondence 
of  those  who  had  just  departed. 

A  sad-eyed  little  woman  in  rusty  black 
modestly  slipped  in,  and  was  handed  out  a 
much-creased  and  begrimed  envelope,  which 
she  nervously  clutched.  She  was  hurrying 
silently  away,  when  the  gossip  sharply  ex- 
claimed, "  Good  lands,  Cynthi'  Prescott!  some 
folks  don't  know  a  body  when  they  meet. 
'Spose  ye've  been  hearin'  from  Jim  at  last. 
I  'd  been  thinkin'  't  was  about  time  ye  got  a 
letter  from  his  hand,  ef  he  war  ever  goin' 
t'  write  at  all.  Tell  ye,  Cynthi'  Prescott, 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  97 

ye  're  too  indulgent  on  that  man  o'  yourn  ! 
Ef  I  — " 

But  Cynthia  Prescott,  turning  her  black, 
deep-sunken  eyes  to  her  inquisitor,  with  a 
piteous,  tearful  look,  as  though  stung  to  the 
quick,  sidled  out  backward  through  the  wire- 
screen  door,  which  sprung  closed  with  a 
vicious  bang,  and  I  saw  her  hurrying  down 
the  village  street  firmly  grasping  at  her  bosom 
what  the  mail  had  brought  her,  —  probably  a 
brutal  demand  for  more  money,  from  a  worth- 
less husband,  who  was  wrecking  his  life-craft 
on  some  far-away  shore. 

"  Goodness  me !  but  the  Gilberts  is  a-put- 
tin'  on  style ! "  ejaculated  the  village  censor, 
as  a  rather  smart  young  horseman  went  out 
with  a  bunch  of  letters,  and  a  little  packet 
tied  up  in  red  twine.  "  That  there  was  vis'tin' 
keerds  from  the  printer's  shop  in  Dixon,  an' 
cost  a  dollar  ;  can't  fool  me  !  There  's  some 
folks  as  hev  to  be  leavin'  keerds  on  folks's 
centre-tables  when  they  goes  makin'  calls,  for 
fear  folks  will  be  a-forgettin'  their  names. 
When  I  go  a-callin',  I  go  a-visitin'  and  take 
my  work  along  an'  stop  an'  hev  a  social  cup 
o'  tea;  an'  they  ain't  a-goin'  to  forgit  for 
awhile,  that  I  dropped  in  on  'em,  neither. 
This  way  they  hev  down  in  Dixon,  what  I 
hear  of,  of  ringin'  at  a  bell  and  settin'  down 
7 


98  Historic  Waterways. 

with  yer  bonnet  on  and  sayin',  '  How  d'  do/ 
an'  a  '  Pretty  well,  I  thank  yer,'  and  jumpin' 
up  as  if  the  fire  bell  was  ringin'  and  goin'  on 
through  the  whole  n'ighberhood  as  ef  ye 're 
on  springs,  an'  then  a-trancin'  back  home  and 
braggin'  how  many  calls  ye  've  made,  —  I 
ain't  got  no  use  for  that ;  it  '11  do  for  Dixon 
folks,  what  catch  the  style  from  Chicargy, 
an'  they  git  't  from  Paris  each  year,  I  'm  told, 
but  I  ain't  no  use  for  't.  Mebbe  ol'  man 
Gilbert  is  made  o'  money,  —  his  women  folks 
act  so,  with  all  this  a-apein'  the  Clays,  who 's 
been  gettin'  visitin'  keerds  all  the  way  from 
Chicargy,  which  they  ordered  of  a  book  agint 
last  fall,  with  gilt  letters  an'  roses  an'  sich  like 
in  the  corners.  An'  'twas  Clay's  brother-in- 
law  as  tol'  me  he  never  did  see  such  carryin's- 
on  over  at  the  old  house,  with  letter-writin' 
paper  sopped  in  cologne,  an'  lace  curtains  in 
the  bed-room  winders.  An'  ye  can't  tell  me 
but  the  Gilberts,  too,  is  a-goin'  to  the  dogs, 
with  their  paper  patterns  from  Dixon,  and  dress 
samples  from  a  big  shop  in  Chicargy,  which 
I  seen  from  the  picture  on  the  envelope  was 
as  big  as  all  Grand  Detour,  an'  both  ferry- 
landin's  thrown  in.  Grand  Detour  fashi'ns 
ain't  good  'nough  for  some  folks,  I  reckon." 

And   thus   the   busy-tongued  woman    dis- 
coursed in  a  vinegary  tone  upon  the  character- 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  99 

istics  of  Grand  Detour  folks,  as  illustrated  by 
the  nature  of  the  evening  mail,  frequently 
interspersing  her  remarks  with  a  hearty  dis- 
claimer of  anything  malicious  in  her  tempera- 
ment. At  last,  however,  the  supper-bell  rang ; 
the  doughty  postmistress,  who  had  been  re- 
markably discreet  throughout  all  this  village 
tirade,  having  darted  in  and  out  between  the 
kitchen  and  the  office,  attending  to  her  dual 
duties,  locked  the  postal  gate  with  a  snap, 
and  asked  her  now  solitary  patron,  "  Any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you,  Maria  ? "  The  gossip 
gathered  up  her  knitting,  hastily  averred  that 
she  had  merely  dropped  in  for  her  weekly 
paper,  but  now  remembered  that  this  was  not 
the  day  for  it,  and  ambled  off,  to  reload  with 
venom  for  the  next  day's  mail. 

After  supper  we  walked  about  the  peaceful, 
pretty,  grass-grown  village.  Shearing  was  in 
progress  at  the  barn  of  the  inn,  and  the  streets 
were  filled  with  bleating  sheep  and  nodding 
billy-goats.  The  place  presented  many  evi- 
dences of  former  prosperity,  and  we  were  told 
that  a  dozen  years  before  it  had  boasted  of  a 
plough  factory,  two  or  three  flouring-mills,  and 
a  good  water-power.  But  the  railroad  that  it 
was  expected  would  come  to  Grand  Detour 
had  touched  Dixon  instead,  with  the  result 
that  the  village  industries  had  been  removed 


ioo  Historic  Waterways. 

to  Dixon,  the  dam  had  fallen  in,  and  now  there 
were  less  than  three  hundred  inhabitants 
between  the  two  ferries. 

When  one  of  the  store-keepers  told  me  he 
had  practically  no  country  trade,  but  that  his 
customers  were  the  villagers  alone,  I  was  led 
to  inquire  what  supported  these  three  hundred 
people,  who  had  no  industries  among  them, 
no  river  traffic,  owing  to  customary  low  water 
in  summer,  and  who  seemed  to  live  on  each 
other.  Many  of  the  villagers,  I  found,  are 
laborers  who  work  upon  the  neighboring 
farms  and  maintain  their  families  here  ;  a  few 
are  farmers,  the  corners  of  whose  places  run 
down  to  the  village  ;  others  there  are  who 
either  own  or  rent  or  "  share "  farms  in  the 
vicinity,  going  out  to  their  work  each  day, 
much  of  their  live  stock  and  crops  being 
housed  at  their  village  homes  ;  there  are  half 
a  dozen  retired  farmers,  who  have  either  sold 
out  their  places  or  have  tenants  upon  them, 
and  live  in  the  village  for  sociability's  sake,  or 
to  allow  their  children  the  benefit  of  the  ex- 
cellent local  school.  Mingled  with  these  peo- 
ple are  a  shoemaker,  a  tailor,  a  storekeeper, 
who  live  upon  the  necessities  of  their  neigh- 
bors. Two  fishermen  spend  the  summer 
here,  in  a  tent,  selling  their  daily  catch  to 
the  villagers  and  neighboring  farmers  and 


Grand  Detour  Folks.  101 

occasionally  shipping  by  the  daily  mail-stage 
to  Dixon,  fourteen  miles  away.  The  preacher 
and  his  family  are  modestly  supported ;  a 
young  physician  wins  a  scanty  subsistence ; 
and  for  considerably  over  half  the  year  the 
schoolmaster  shares  with  them  what  honors 
and  sorrows  attach  to  these  positions  of  rural 
eminence.  Our  pleasant-spoken  host  was  the 
driver  of  the  Dixon  stage,  as  well  as  star-route 
mail  contractor,  adding  the  conduct  of  a  farm 
to  his  other  duties.  With  his  wife  as  post- 
mistress, and  a  pretty,  buxom  daughter,  who 
waited  on  our  table  and  was  worth  her  weight 
in  gold,  Grand  Detour  folks  said  that  he  was 
bound  to  be  a  millionnaire  yet. 

As  Grand  Detour  lives,  so  live  thousands 
of  just  such  little  rural  villages  all  over  the 
country.  Viewed  from  the  railway  track  or 
river  channel,  they  appear  to  have  been  once 
larger  than  they  are  to-day.  The  sight  of 
the  unpainted  houses,  the  ruined  factory,  the 
empty  stores,  the  grass  and  weeds  in  the 
street,  the  lack-lustre  eyes  of  the  idlers,  may 
induce  one  to  imagine  that  here  is  the  home 
of  hopeless  poverty  and  despair.  But  although 
the  railroad  which  they  expected  never  came  ; 
or  the  railroad  which  did  come  went  on  and 
scheduled  the  place  as  a  flag  station ;  still, 
there  is  a  certain  inherent  vitality  here,  an 


IO2  Historic  Waterways. 

undefined  something  that  holds  these  people 
together,  a  certain  degree  of  hopefulness 
which  cannot  rise  to  the  point  of  ambition,  a 
serene  satisfaction  with  the  things  that  are. 
Grand  Detour  folks,  and  folks  like  them, 
are  as  blissfully  content  as  the  denizens  of 
Chicago. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN    ANCIENT    MARINER. 

THE  clock  in  a  neighboring  kitchen  was 
striking  six,  as  we  reached  the  lower 
ferry-landing.  The  grass  in  the  streets  and 
under  the  old  elms  was  as  wet  with  dew  as 
though  there  had  been  a  heavy  shower  during 
the  night.  The  village  fishermen  were  just 
pulling  in  to  the  little  pier,  returning  from 
an  early  morning  trip  to  their  "  traut-lines  " 
down  stream.  In  a  long  wooden  cage,  which 
they  towed  astern,  was  a  fifty-pound  sturgeon, 
together  with  several  large  cat-fish.  They 
kindly  hauled  their  cage  ashore,  to  show  us 
the  monsters,  which  they  said  would  prob- 
ably be  shipped,  alive,  to  a  Chicago  restau- 
rant which  they  occasionally  furnished  with 
curiosities  in  their  line.  These  fishermen 
were  rough-looking  fellows  in  their  battered 
hats  and  ragged,  dirty  overcoats,  with  faces 
sadly  in  need  of  water  and  a  shave.  They 


IO4  Historic  Waterways. 

had  a  sad,  pinched-up  appearance  as  well,  as 
though  the  dense  fog,  which  was  but  just  now 
yielding  to  the  influence  of  the  sun,  had  pen- 
etrated their  bones  and  given  them  the  chills. 
On  engaging  them  in  friendly  conversation 
about  their  calling,  they  exhibited  good,  man- 
ners and  some  knowledge  of  the  outer  world. 
Their  business,  they  said,  was  precarious  and, 
as  we  could  well  see,  involved  much  expos- 
ure and  hardship.  Sometimes  it  meant  a 
start  at  midnight,  often  amid  rainstorms,  fogs, 
or  chilling  weather,  with  a  hard  pull  back 
again  up-stream,  —  for  their  lines  were  all  of 
them  below  Grand  Detour ;  but  to  return 
with  an  empty  boat,  sometimes  their  luck, 
was  harder  yet.  Knocking  about  in  this  way, 
all  of  the  year  around,  —  for  their  winters 
were  similarly  spent  upon  the  lower  waters 
and  bayous  of  the  Mississippi, — neither  of 
them  was  ever  thoroughly  well.  One  was 
consumptively  inclined,  he  told  me,  and  being 
an  old  soldier,  was  receiving  a  small  pension. 
A  claim  agent  had  him  in  hand,  however,  and 
his  thoughts  ran  largely  upon  the  prospects 
of  an  increase  by  special  legislation.  He 
seemed  to  have  but  little  doubt  that  he  would 
ultimately  succeed.  When  he  came  into  this 
looked-for  fortune,  he  said,  he  would  "  quit 
knockin'  'round  an'  killin'  myself  fishin'," 


An  Ancient  Mariner.  105 

settle  down  in  Grand  Detour  for  the  balance 
of  his  days,  raising  his  own  "garden  sass, 
pigs,  and  cow ; "  and  some  fine  day  would 
make  a  trip  in  his  boat  to  the  "  old  home 
in  Injianny,  whar  I  was  raised  an'  'listed  in 
the  war."  His  face  fairly  gleamed  with  pleas- 
ure as  he  thus  dwelt  upon  the  flowers  of 
fancy  which  the  pension  agent  had  cultivated 
within  him  ;  and  W sympathetically  ex- 
claimed, when  we  had  swung  into  the  stream 
and  bidden  farewell  to  these  men  who  fol- 
lowed the  calling  of  the  apostles,  that  were 
she  a  congressman  she  would  certainly  vote 
for  the  fisherman's  claim,  and  make  happy 
one  more  heart  in  Grand  Detour. 

Now  commences  the  Great  Bend  of  the 
Rock  River.  The  water  circuit  is  fourteen 
miles,  the  distance  gained  being  but  six  by 
land.  The  stream  is  broad  and  shallow, 
between  palisades  densely  surmounted  with 
trees  and  covered  thick  with  vines ;  great 
willow  islands  freely  intersperse  the  course ; 
everywhere  are  evidences  of  ice-floes,  which 
have  blazed  the  trees  and  strewn  the  islands 
with  fallen  trunks  and  driftwood,  —  a  tornado 
could  not  have  created  more  general  havoc. 
The  visible  houses,  few  of  them  inviting  in 
appearance,  are  miles  apart.  As  had  been 
foretold  at  the  village,  the  outlook  for  lodg- 


106  Historic  Waterways. 

ings  in  this  dismal  region  is  not  at  all  encour- 
aging. It  was  well  that  we  had  stopped  at 
Grand  Detour. 

Below  the  bend,  where  the  country  is  more 
open,  though  the  banks  are  still  deep-cut,  the 
highway  to  Dixon  skirts  the  river,  and  for  sev- 
eral miles  we  kept  company  with  the  stage. 

Dixon  was  sighted  at  10  o'clock,  A  circus 
had  pitched  its  tents  upon  the  northern  bank, 
just  above  the  dam,  near  where  we  landed  for 
the  carry,  and  a  crowd  of  small  boys  came 
swarming  down  the  bank  to  gaze  upon  us, 
possibly  imagining,  at  first,  that  our  outfit  was 
a  part  of  the  show.  They  accompanied  us,  at 
a  respectful  distance,  as  we  pulled 'the  canoe 
up  a  grassy  incline  and  down  through  the 
vine-clad  arches  of  a  picturesque  old  ruin  of 
a  mill.  Below  the  dam,  we  rowed  over  to  the 
town,  about  where  the  famous  pioneer  ferry 
used  to  be.  It  was  in  the  spring  of  1826  that 
John  Boles  opened  a  trail  from  Peoria  to 
Galena,  by  the  way  of  the  present  locality  of 
Dixon,  thus  shortening  a  trail  which  had  been 
started  by  one  Kellogg  the  year  before,  but 
crossed  the  Rock  a  few  miles  above.  The 
site  of  Dixon  at  once  sprang  into  wide  popu- 
larity as  a  crossing-place,  Indians  being  em- 
ployed to  do  the  ferrying.  Their  manner 
was  simple.  Lashing  two  canoes  abreast,  the 


An  Ancient  Mariner.  107 

wheels  of  one  side  of  a  wagon  were  placed  in 
one  canoe  and  the  opposite  wheels  in  the 
other.  The  horses  were  made  to  swim  be- 
hind. In  1827  a  Peoria  man  named  Begordis 
erected  a  small  shanty  here  and  had  half 
finished  a  ferry-boat  when  the  Indians,  not 
favoring  competition,  burned  the  craft  on  its 
stocks  and  advised  Begordis  to  return  to 
Peoria  ;  being  a  wise  man,  he  returned.  The 
next  year,  Joe  Ogie,  a  Frenchman,  one  of  a 
race  that  the  red  men  loved,  and  having  a 
squaw  for  his  wife,  was  permitted  to  build  a 
scow,  and  thenceforth  Indians  were  no  longer 
needed  there  as  common  carriers.  By  the 
time  of  the  Black  Hawk  war,  Dixon,  from 
whom  the  subsequent  settlement  was  named, 
ran  the  ferry,  and  the  crossing  station  had 
henceforth  a  name  in  history.  A  trail  in  those 
early  days  was  quite  as  important  as  a  railroad 
is  to-day  ;  settlements  sprang  up  along  the  im- 
proved "  Kellogg's  trail,"  and  Dixon  was  the 
centre  of  interest  in  all  northern  Illinois.  In- 
deed, it  being  for  years  the  only  point  where 
the  river  could  be  crossed  by  ferry,  Dixon  was 
as  important  a  landmark  to  the  settlers  of  the 
southern  half  of  Wisconsin  who  desired  to  go 
to  Chicago,  as  any  within  their  own  territory.1 

1  See  Mrs.  Kinzie's  "  Wau-Bun  "  for  a  description  of  the 
difficulties  of  travel  in  "the  early  day,"  via  Dixon's  Ferry. 


loS  Historic  Waterways. 

The  Dixon  of  to-day  shelters  four  thousand 
inhabitants  and  has  two  or  three  busy  mills  ; 
although  it  is  noticeable  that  along  the  water- 
power  there  are  some  half-dozen  mill  proper- 
ties that  have  been  burned,  torn  down,  or 
deserted,  which  does  not  look  well  for  the 
manufacturing  prospects  of  the  place.  The 
land  along  the  river  banks  is  a  flat  prairie 
some  half-mile  in  width,  with  rolling  country 
beyond,  sprinkled  with  oak  groves.  The 
banks  are  of  black,  sandy  loam,  from  twelve 
to  twenty  feet  high,  based  with  sandy  beaches. 
The  shores  are  now  and  then  cut  with  deep 
ravines,  at  the  mouths  of  which  are  fine, 
gravelly  beaches,  sometimes  forming  consid- 
erable spits.  These  indicate  that  the  dry, 
barren  gullies,  the  gutters  of  the  hillocks, 
while  innocent  enough  in  a  drought,  some- 
times rise  to  the  dignity  of  torrents  and  sud- 
denly pour  great  volumes  of  drainage  into  the 
rapidly  filling  river, — so  often  described  in 
the  journals  of  early  travelers  through  this 
region,  as  "the  dark  and  raging  Rock."  This 
sort  of  scenery,  varied  by  occasional  limestone 
palisades,  —  the  interesting  and  picturesque 
feature  of  the  Rock,  from  which  it  derived 
its  name  at  the  hands  of  the  aborigines, — 
extends  down  to  beyond  Sterling. 

This  city,  reached  at  3.50  P.  M.,  is  a  busy 


An  Ancient  Mariner.          109 

place  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants,  engaged 
in  miscellaneous  manufactures.  Our  port- 
age was  over  the  south  and  dry  end  of  the 
dam.  We  were  helped  by  three  or  four  bright, 
intelligent  boys,  who  were  themselves  carry- 
ing over  a  punt,  preparatory  to  a  fishing  ex- 
pedition below.  Amid  the  hundreds  of  boys 
whom  we  met  at  our  various  portages,  these 
well-bred  Sterling  lads  were  the  only  ones 
who  even  offered  their  assistance.  Very 
likely,  however,  the  reason  may  be  traced  to 
the  fact  that  this  was  Saturday,  and  a  school 
holiday.  The  boys  at  the  week-day  carries 
were  the  riff-raff,  who  are  allowed  to  loaf  upon 
the  river-banks  when  they  should  be  at  their 
school-room  desks. 

While  mechanically  pulling  a  "  fisherman's 
stroke "  down  stream  I  was  dreamily  reflect- 
ing upon  the  necessity  of  enforced  popular 
education,  when  W ,  vigilant  at  the  steers- 
man's post,  mischievously  broke  in  upon  the 
brown  study  with,  "Como's  next  station! 
Twenty  minutes  for  supper  !  " 

And  sure  enough,  it  was  a  quarter  past  six, 
and  there  was  Como  nestled  upon  the  edge  of 
the  high  prairie-bank.  I  went  up  into  the 
hamlet  to  purchase  a  quart  of  milk  for  supper, 
and  found  it  a  little  dead-alive  community  of 
perhaps  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  people. 


1 1  o  Historic  Waterways. 

There  is  the  brick  shell  of  a  fire-gutted  fac- 
tory, with  several  abandoned  stores,  a  dozen 
houses  from  which  the  paint  had  long  since 
scaled,  a  rather  smart-looking  schoolhouse, 
and  two  brick  dwellings  of  ancient  pattern,  — 
the  homes  of  well-to-do  farmers ;  while  here 
and  there  were  grass-grown  depressions,  which 
I  was  told  were  once  the  cellars  of  houses 
that  had  been  moved  away.  On  the  return 
to  the  beach  a  bevy  of  open-mouthed  women 
and  children  accompanied  me,  plying  questions 
with  a  simplicity  so  rare  that  there  was  no 

thought  of  impertinence.     W was  talking 

with  the  old  gray-haired  ferryman,  who  had 
been  transporting  a  team  across  as  we  had 
landed  beside  his  staging.  The  old  man 
had  stayed  behind,  avowedly  to  mend  his  boat, 
with  a  stone  for  a  hammer,  but  it  was  quite 
apparent  that  curiosity  kept  him,  rather  than 
the  needs  of  his  scow.  He  confided  to  us 
that  Como  —  which  was  indeed  prettily  situ- 
ated upon  a  bend  of  the  river  —  had  once  been 
a  prosperous  town.  But  the  railroad  went  to 
some  rival  place,  and  —  the  familiar  story  — 
the  dam  at  Como  rotted,  and  the  village  fell 
into  its  present  dilapidated  state.  It  is  the 
fate  of  many  a  small  but  ambitious  town 
upon  a  river.  Settled  originally  because  of 
the  river  highway,  the  railroads  —  that  have 


An  Ancient.  Mariner.  1 1 1 

nearly  killed  the  business  of  water  transpor- 
tation—  did  not  care  to  go  there  because  it 
was  too  far  out  of  the  short-cut  path  selected 
by  the  engineers  between  two  more  promi- 
nent points.  Thus  the  community  is  "side- 
tracked," —  to  use  a  bit  of  railway  slang  ;  and 
a  side-tracked  town  becomes  in  the  new  civili- 
zation—  which  cares  nothing  for  the  rivers, 
but  clusters  along  the  iron  ways  —  a  town 
"as  dead  as  a  door-nail." 

We  had  luncheon  on  a  high  bank  just  out 
of  sight  of  Como.  By  the  time  we  had 
reached  a  point  three  or  four  miles  below  the 
village  it  was  growing  dark,  and  time  to  hunt 
for  shelter.  While  I  walked,  or  rather  ran, 
along  the  north  bank  looking  for  a  farm-house, 

W guided  the  canoe  down  a  particularly 

rapid  current.  It  was  really  too  dark  to  prose- 
cute the  search  with  convenience.  I  was 
several  times  misled  by  clumps  of  trees,  and 
fruitlessly  climbed  over  board  or  crawled  under 
barbed-wire  fences,  and  often  stumbled  along 
the  dusty  highway  which  at  times  skirted  the 
bank.  It  was  over  a  mile  before  an  undoubt- 
ed windmill  appeared,  dimly  silhouetted  against 
the  blackening  sky  above  a  dense  growth  of 
river-timber  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the 

stream.     A  whistle,  and  W shot  the  craft 

into  the  mouth  of  a  black  ravine,  and  clam- 


H2  Historic  Waterways. 

bered  up  the  bank,  at  the  serious  risk  of  torn 
clothing  from  the  thicket  of  blackberry-vines 
and  locust  saplings  which  covered  it.  To- 
gether we  emerged  upon  the  highway,  deter- 
mined to  seek  the  windmill  on  foot ;  for  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  sight  the  place 
from  the  river,  which  was  now,  from  the  over- 
hanging trees  on  both  shores  and  islands,  as 
dark  as  a  cavern.  Just  as  we  stepped  upon 
the  narrow  road  —  which  we  were  only  able 
to  distinguish  because  the  dust  was  lighter  in 
color  than  the  vegetation  —  a  farm-team  came 
rumbling  along  over  a  neighboring  culvert, 
and  rolled  into  view  from  behind  a  fringe  of 
bushes.  The  horses  jumped  and  snorted  as 
they  suddenly  sighted  our  dark  forms,  and 
began  to  plunge.  The  women  gave  a  mild 
shriek,  and  awakened  a  small  child  which  one 
of  them  carried  in  her  arms.  I  essayed  to 
snatch  the  bits  of  the  frightened  horses  to  pre- 
vent them  from  running  away,  for  the  women 

had  dropped  the  lines,  while  W called 

out  asking  if  there  was  a  good  farm-house 
where  the  windmill  was.  The  team  quieted 
down  under  a  few  soothing  strokes  ;  but  the 
women  persisted  in  screaming  and  uttering 
incoherent  imprecations  in  German,  while 
the  child  fairly  roared.  So  I  returned  the 
lines  to  the  woman  in  charge,  and  we  bade 


An  Ancient  Mariner.  1 1 3 

them  "  Guten  Nacht."  As  they  whipped  up 
their  animals  and  hurried  away,  with  fearful 
backward  glances,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  us 
that  we  had  been  taken  for  footpads. 

We  were  so  much  amused  at  our  adventure, 
as  we  walked  along,  almost  groping  our  way, 
that  we  failed  to  notice  a  farm-gate  on  the 
river  side  of  the  road,  until  a  chorus  of  dogs, 
just  over  the  fence,  arrested  our  attention. 
A  half-dozen  human  voices  were  at  once  heard 
calling  back  the  animals.  A  light  shone  in 
thin  streaks  through  a  black  fringe  of  lilac- 
bushes,  and  in  front  of  these  was  the  gate. 
Opening  the  creaky  structure,  we  advanced 
cautiously  up  what  we  felt  to  be  a  gravel  walk, 
under  an  arch  of  evergreens  and  lilacs,  with 
the  paddle  ready  as  a  club,  in  case  of  another 
dog  outbreak.  But  there  was  no  need  of  it, 
and  we  soon  emerged  into  a  flood  of  light, 
which  proceeded  from  a  shadeless  lamp  within 
an  open  window. 

It  was  a  spacious  white  farm-house.  Upon 
the  "  stoop "  of  an  L  were  standing,  in  atti- 
tudes of  expectancy,  a  stout,  well-fed,  though 
rather  sinister-expressioned  elderly  man,  with 
a  long  gray  beard,  and  his  raw-boned,  over- 
worked wife,  with  two  fair  but  dissatisfied- 
looking  daughters,  and  several  sons,  ranging 
from  twelve  to  twenty  years.  A  few  moments 


H4  Historic  Waterways. 

of  explanation  dispelled  the  suspicious  look 
with  which  we  had  been  greeted,  and  it  was 
soon  agreed  that  we  should,  for  a  considera- 
tion, be  entertained  for  the  night  and  over 
Sunday  ;  although  the  good  woman  protested 
that  her  house  was  "  topsy-turvy,  all  torn  up  " 
with  house-cleaning,  —  which  excuse,  by  the 
way,  had  become  quite  familiar  by  this  time, 
having  been  current  at  every  house  we  had 
thus  far  entered  upon  our  journey. 

Bringing  our  canoe  down  to  the  farmer's 
bank  and  hauling  it  up  into  the  bushes,  we 
returned  through  the  orchard  to  the  house, 
laden  with  baggage.  Our  host  proved  to  be 
a  famous  story-teller.  His  tales,  often  Mun- 
chausenese,  were  inclined  to  be  ghastly,  and 
he  had  an  o'erweening  fondness  for  inconse- 
quential detail,  like  some  authors  of  serial 
tales,  who  write  against  space  and  tax  the  pa- 
tience of  their  readers  to  its  utmost  endurance. 
But  while  one  may  skip  the  dreary  pages  of 
the  novelist,  the  circumstantial  story-teller 
must  be  borne  with  patiently,  though  the 
hours  lag  with  leaden  heels.  In  earlier  days 
the  old  man  had  been  something  of  a  traveler, 
having  journeyed  to  Illinois  by  steamboat 
on  the  upper  lakes,  from  "  ol'  York  State  ; " 
another  time  he  went  down  the  Mississippi 
River  to  Natchez,  working  his  way  as  a  deck 


An  Ancient  Mariner.          1 1 5 

hand ;  but  the  crowning  event  of  his  career 
was  his  having,  as  a  driver,  accompanied 
a  cattle-train  to  New  York  city.  A  few 
years  ago  he  tumbled  down  a  well  and  was 
hauled  up  something  of  a  cripple;  so  that  his 
occupation  chiefly  consists  in  sitting  around 
the  house  in  an  easy-chair,  or  entertaining  the 
crowd  at  the  cross-roads  store  with  sturdy  tales 
of  his  adventures  by  land  and  sea,  spiced  with 
vigorous  opinions  on  questions  of  politics  and 
theology.  The  garrulity  of  age,  a  powerful 
imagination,  and  a  boasting  disposition  are 
his  chief  stock  in  trade. 

Propped  up  in  his  great  chair,  with  one  leg 
resting  upon  a  lounge  and  the  other  aiding 
his  iron-ferruled  cane  in  pounding  the  floor 
by  way  of  punctuating  his  remarks,  "  that 
ancient  mariner" 

"  Held  us  with  his  glittering  eye; 
We  could  not  choose  but  hear." 

His  tales  were  chiefly  of  shooting  and  stab- 
bing scrapes,  drownings  and  hangings  that  he 
claimed  to  have  seen,  dwelling  upon  each 
incident  with  a  blood-curdling  particularity 
worthy  of  the  reporter  of  a  sensational  metro- 
politan journal.  The  ancient  man  must  have 
fairly  walked  in  blood  through  the  greater  part 
of  his  days  ;  while  from  the  number  of  corpses 


1 1 6  Historic  Waterways. 

that  had  been  fished  out  of  the  river,  at  the 
head  of  a  certain  island  at  the  foot  of  his  or- 
chard, and  "laid  out"  in  his  best  bedroom  by 
the  coroner,  we  began  to  feel  as  though  we 
had  engaged  quarters  at  a  morgue.  It  was 
painfully  evident  that  these  recitals  were 
"chestnuts"  in  the  house  of  our  entertainer. 
The  poor  old  lady  had  a  tired-out,  unhappy 
appearance,  the  dissatisfied-looking  daughters 
yawned,  and  the  sons  talked,  sotto  voce,  on 
farm  matters  and  neighborhood  gossip. 

Finally,  we  tore  away,  much  to  the  relief  of 
every  one  but  the  host,  and  were  ushered  with 
much  ceremony  into  the  ghostly  bed-chamber, 
the  scene  of  so  many  coroner's  inquests.  I 
must  confess  to  uncanny  dreams  that  night, 
—  confused  visions  of  Rock  River  giving  up 
innumerable  corpses,  which  I  was  compelled 
to  assist  in  "  laying  out "  upon  the  very  bed  I 
occupied. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

STORM-BOUND    AT   ERIE. 

WE  were  somewhat  jaded  by  the  time 
Monday  morning  came,  for  Sunday 
brought  not  only  no  relief,  but  repetitions  of 
many  of  the  most  horrible  of  these  "  tales  of 
a  wayside  inn."  It  was  with  no  slight  sense 
of  relief  that  we  paid  our  modest  bill  and  at 
last  broke  away  from  such  ghastly  associa- 
tions. An  involuntary  shudder  overcame  me, 
as  we  passed  the  head  of  the  island  at  the 
foot  of  our  host's  orchard,  which  he  had  de- 
scribed as  a  catch-basin  for  human  floaters. 

Our  course  still  lay  among  large,  densely 
wooded  islands,  —  many  of  them  wholly  given 
up  to  maples  and  willows,  —  and  deep  cuts 
through  sun-baked  mudbanks,  the  color  of 
adobe  ;  but  occasionally  there  are  low,  gloomy 
bottoms,  heavily  forested,  and  strewn  with 
flood-wood,  while  beyond  the  land  rises  gradu- 
ally into  prairie  stretches.  In  the  bottoms 


n8  Historic  Waterways. 

the  trees  are  filled  with  flocks  of  birds,  — 
crows,  hawks,  blackbirds,  with  stately  blue 
herons  and  agile  plovers  foraging  on  the  long 
gravel-spits  which  frequently  jut  far  into  the 
stream ;  ducks  are  frequently  seen  sailing 
near  the  shores ;  while  divers  silently  dart 
and  plunge  ahead  of  the  canoe,  safely  out  of 
gunshot  reach.  A  head  wind  this  morning 
made  rowing  more  difficult,  by  counteracting 
the  influence  of  the  current. 

We  were  at  Lyndon  at  eleven  o'clock. 
There  is  a  population  of  about  two  hundred, 
clustered  around  a  red  paper-mill.  The  latter 
made  a  pretty  picture  standing  out  on  the 
bold  bank,  backed  by  a  number  of  huge  stacks 
of  golden  straw.  We  met  here  the  first 
rapids  worthy  of  record  ;  also  an  old,  aban- 
doned mill-dam,  in  the  last  stages  of  decay, 
stretching  its  whitened  skeleton  across  the 
stream,  a  harbor  for  driftwood.  Near  the 
south  bank  the  framework  has  been  entirely 
swept  away  for  a  space  several  rods  in  width, 
and  through  this  opening  the  pent-up  current 
fiercely  sweeps.  We  went  through  the  centre 
of  the  channel  thus  made,  with  a  swoop  that 
gave  us  an  impetus  which  soon  carried  our 
vessel  out  of  sight  of  Lyndon  and  its  paper-mill 
and  straw-stacks. 

Prophetstown,  five  miles  below,  is  prettily 


Storm-Bound  at  Erie.  119 

situated  in  an  oak  grove  on  the  southern 
bank.  Only  the  gables  of  a  few  houses  can 
be  seen  from  the  river,  whose  banks  of  yellow 
clay  and  brown  mud  are  here  twenty-five  feet 
high.  During  the  first  third  of  the  present 
century,  this  place  was  the  site  of  a  Winne- 
bago  village,  whose  chief  was  White  Cloud, 
a  shrewd,  sinister  savage,  half  Winnebago 
and  half  Sac,  who  claimed  to  be  a  prophet. 
He  was  Black  Hawk's  evil  genius  during  the 
uprising  of  1832,  and  in  many  ways  was  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  aborigines  known  to 
Illinois  history.  It  was  at  "  the  prophet's 
town,"  as  White  Cloud's  village  was  known 
in  pioneer  days,  that  Black  Hawk  rested  upon 
his  ill-fated  journey  up  the  Rock,  and  from 
here,  at  the  instigation  of  the  wizard,  he  bade 
the  United  States  soldiery  defiance. 

There  are  rapids,  almost  continually,  from 
a  mile  above  Prophetstown  to  Erie,  ten  miles 
below.  The  river  bed  here  has  a  sharper 
descent  than  customary,  and  is  thickly  strewn 
with  bowlders  ;  many  of  them  were  visible 
above  the  surface,  at  the  low  stage  of  water 
which  we  found,  but  for  the  greater  part  they 
were  covered  for  two  or  three  inches.  What 
with  these  impediments,  the  snags  that  had 
been  left  as  the  legacy  of  last  spring's  flood, 
and  the  frequent  sand-banks  and  gravel-spits, 


I2O  Historic  Waterways, 

navigation  was  attended  by  many  difficulties 
and  some  dangers. 

Four  or  five  miles  below  Prophetstown,  a 
lone  fisherman,  engaged  in  examining  a  "  traut- 
line  "  stretched  between  one  of  the  numerous 
gloomy  islands  and  the  mainland,  kindly  in- 
formed us  of  a  mile-long  cut-off,  the  mouth  of 
which  was  now  in  view,  that  would  save  us 
several  miles  of  rowing.  Here,  the  high 
banks  had  receded,  with  several  miles  of 
heavily  wooded,  boggy  bottoms  intervening. 
Floods  had  held  high  carnival,  and  the  aspect 
of  the  country  was  wild  and  deserted.  The 
cut-off  was  an  ugly  looking  channel  ;  but 
where  our  informant  had  gone  through,  with 
his  unwieldy  hulk,  we  considered  it  safe  to  ven- 
ture with  a  canoe,  so  readily  responsive  to  the 
slightest  paddle-stroke.  The  current  had  torn 
for  itself  a  jagged  bed  through  the  heart  of  a 
dense  and  moss-grown  forest.  It  was  a  scene 
of  howling  desolation,  rack  and  ruin  upon 
every  hand.  The  muddy  torrent,  at  a  velocity 
of  fully  eight  miles  an  hour,  went  eddying  and 
whirling  and  darting  and  roaring  among  the 
gnarled  and  blackened  stumps,  the  prostrate 
trees,  the  twisted  roots,  the  huge  bowlders 
which  studded  its  course.  The  stream  was 
not  wide  enough  for  the  oars  ;  the  paddle  was 
the  sole  reliance.  With  eyes  strained  for 


Storm-Bound  at  Erie.  121 

obstructions,  we  turned  and  twisted  through 
the  labyrinth,  jumping  along  at  a  breakneck 
speed  ;  and,  when  we  finally  rejoined  the  main 
river  below,  were  grateful  enough,  for  the  run 
had  been  filled  with  continuous  possibilities 
of  a  disastrous  smash-up,  miles  away  from  any 
human  habitation. 

The  thunder-storm  which  had  been  threat- 
ening since  early  morning,  soon  burst  upon 
us  with  a  preliminary  wind  blast,  followed  by 
drenching  rain.  Running  ashore  on  the  lee 
bank,  we  wrapped  the  canvas  awning  around 
the  baggage,  and  made  for  a  thick  clump  of 
trees  on  the  top  of  an  island  mudbank,  where 
we  stood  buttoned  to  the  neck  in  rubber  coats. 
A  vigorous  "  Halloo  !  "  came  sounding  over 
the  water.  Looking  up,  we  saw  for  the  first 
time  a  small  tent  on  the  opposite  shore,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  in  front  of  which  was 
a  man  shouting  to  us  and  beckoning  us  over. 
It  was  getting  uncomfortably  muddy  under 
the  trees,  which  had  not  long  sufficed  as  an 
umbrella,  and  the  rubber  coats  were  not  war- 
ranted to  withstand  a  deluge,  so  we  accepted 
the  invitation  with  alacrity  and  paddled  over 
through  the  pelting  storm. 

Our  host  was  a  young  fisherman,  who 
helped  us  and  our  luggage  up  the  slimy  bank 
to  his  canvas  quarters,  which  we  found  to  be 


122  Historic  Waterways. 

dry,  although  odorous  of  fish.  While  the 
storm  raged  without,  the  young  man,  who  was 
a  simple-hearted  fellow,  confided  to  us  the  de- 
tails of  his  brief  career.  He  had  been  mar- 
ried but  a  year,  he  said  ;  his  little  cabin  lay  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  back  in  the  woods,  and,  so 
as  to  be  convenient  to  his  lines,  he  was  camp- 
ing on  his  own  wood-lot ;  the  greater  part  of 
his  time  was  spent  in  fishing  or  hunting,  ac- 
cording to  the  season,  and  peddling  the 
product  in  neighboring  towns,  while  upon  a 
few  acres  of  clearing  he  raised  "garden  truck  " 
for  his  household,  which  had  recently  become 
enriched  by  the  addition  of  an  infant  son. 
The  phenomenal  powers  of  observation  dis- 
played by  this  first-born  youth  were  reported 
with  much  detail  by  the  fond  father,  who  sat 
crouched  upon  a  boat-sail  in  one  corner  of 
the  little  tent,  his  head  between  his  knees,  and 
smoking  vile  tobacco  in  a  blackened  clay  pipe. 
It  seemed  that  his  wife  was  a  ferryman's 
daughter,  and  her  father  had  besought  his 
son-in-law  to  follow  the  same  steady  calling. 
To  be  sure,  our  host  declared,  ferries  on  the 
Rock  River  netted  their  owners  from  $400  to 
$800  a  year,  which  he  considered  a  goodly 
sum,  and  his  father-in-law  had  offered  to  pur- 
chase an  established  plant  for  him.  But  the 
young  fellow  said  that  ferrying  was  a  dog's 


Storm-Bo und  at  Erie.  1 2  3 

life,  and  "kept  a  feller  home  like  barn  chores  ;" 
he  preferred  to  fish  and  hunt,  earning  far  less 
but  retaining  independence  of  movement,  so 
rejected  the  offer  and  settled  down,  avowedly 
for  life,  in  his  present  precarious  occupation. 
As  a  result,  the  indignant  old  man  had  for- 
bidden him  to  again  enter  the  parental  ferry- 
house  until  he  agreed  to  accept  his  proposals, 
and  there  was  henceforth  to  be  a  standing 
family  quarrel.  The  fisherman  having  ap- 
pealed to  my  judgment,  I  endeavored  with 
mild  caution  to  argue  him  out  of  his  position 
on  the  score  of  consideration  for  his  wife  and 
little  one  ;  but  he  was  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
and  firmly,  though  with  admirable  good  na- 
ture, persisted  in  defending  his  roving  ten- 
dencies. In  the  course  of  our  conversation 
I  learned  that  the  ferrymen,  who  are  more 
numerous  on  the  lower  than  on  the  upper 
Rock,  pay  an  annual  license  fee  of  five  dollars 
each,  in  consideration  of  which  they  are  guar- 
antied a  monopoly  of  the  business  at  their 
stands,  no  other  line  being  allowed  within  one 
mile  of  an  existing  ferry. 

Within  an  hour  and  a  half  the  storm  had 
apparently  passed  over,  and  we  continued  our 
journey.  But  after  supper  another  shower 
and  a  stiff  head  wind  came  up,  and  we  were 
well  bedraggled  by  the  time  a  ferry-landing 


124  Historic  Waterways. 

near  the  little  village  of  Erie  was  reached. 
The  bottoms  are  here  a  mile  or  two  in  width, 
with  occasional  openings  in  the  woods,  where 
small  fields  are  cultivated  by  the  poorer  class 
of  farmers,  who  were  last  spring  much  dam- 
aged by  the  flood  which  swept  this  entire 
country. 

The  ferryman,  a  good-natured  young  ath- 
lete, was  landing  a  farm-wagon  and  team  as 
we  pulled  in  upon  the  muddy  roadway. 
When  questioned  about  quarters,  he  smiled 
and  pointing  to  his  little  cabin,  a  few  rods 
off  in  the  bushes,  said,  —  "We've  four  peo- 
ple to  sleep  in  two  rooms  ;  it 's  sure  we  can't 
take  ye  ;  I  'd  like  to,  otherwise.  But  Erie 's 
only  a  mile  away." 

We  assured  him  that  with  these  muddy 
swamp  roads,  and  in  our  wet  condition,  noth- 
ing but  absolute  necessity  would  induce  us  to 
take  a  mile's  tramp.  The  parley  ended  in  our 
being  directed  to  a  small  farm-house  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  inland,  where  luckless  travelers,  be- 
lated on  the  dreary  bottoms,  were  occasionally 
kept.  Making  the  canoe  fast  for  the  night, 
we  strung  our  baggage-packs  upon  the  paddle 
which  we  carried  between  us,  and  set  out 
along  a  devious  way,  through  a  driving  mist 
which  blackened  the  twilight  into  dusk,  to 
find  this  place  of  public  entertainment. 


Storm-Bound  at  Erie.  125 

It  is  a  little,  one-story,  dilapidated  farm- 
house, standing  a  short  distance  from  the 
country  road,  amid  a  clump  of  poplar  trees. 
Forcing  our  way  through  the  hingeless  gate, 
the  violent  removal  of  which  threatened  the 
immediate  destruction  of  several  lengths  of 
rickety  fence,  we  walked  up  to  the  open  front 
door  and  applied  for  shelter. 

"Yes,  ma'am  ;  we  sometimes  keeps  tavern, 
ma'am,"  replied  a  large,  greasy-looking,  black- 
haired  woman  of  some  forty  years,  as,  her 
hands  folded  within  her  up-turned  apron,  she 
courtesied  to  W . 

We  were  at  once  shown  into  a  frowsy 
apartment  which  served  as  parlor,  sitting-room 
and  parental  dormitory.  There  was  huddled 
together  an  odd,  slouchy  combination  of  arti- 
cles of  shabby  furniture  and  cheap  decorations, 
peculiar,  in  the  country,  to  all  three  classes  of 
rooms,  the  evidences  of  poverty,  shiftlessness, 
and  untasteful  pretentiousness  upon  every 
side.  A  huge,  wheezy  old  cabinet  organ  was 
set  diagonally  in  one  corner,  and  upon  this,  as 
we  entered,  a  young  woman  was  pounding 
and  paddling  with  much  vigor,  while  giving 
us  sidelong  glances  of  curiosity.  She  was  a 
neighbor,  on  an  evening  visit,  decked  out  in 
a  smart  jockey-cap,  with  a  green  ostrich  tip 
and  bright  blue  ribbons,  and  gay  in  a  new 


126  Historic  Waterways. 

calico  dress, —  a  yellow  field  thickly  planted 
to  purple  pineapples.  A  jaunty,  forward  crea- 
ture, in  pimples  and  curls,  she  rattled  away 
through  a  Moody  and  Sankey  hymn-book,  the 
wheezes  and  groans  of  the  antique  instrument 
coming  in  like  mournful  ejaculations  from  the 
amen  corner  at  a  successful  revival.  Having 
exhausted  her  stock  of  tunes,  she  wheeled 
around  upon  her  stool,  and  after  declaring  to 
her  half-dozen  admiring  auditors  that  her 
hands  were  "as  tired  as  after  the  mornin's 

milkin"'  abruptly  accosted  W :  "Ma'am, 

kin  ye  play  on  the  orgin  ? " 

W confessed  her  inability,  chiefly  from 

lack  of  practice  in  the  art  of  incessantly 
working  the  pedals. 

"  That's  the  trick  o'  the  hul  business,  ma'am, 
is  the  blowin'.  It's  all  in  gettin'  the  bellers  to 
work  even  like.  There 's  a  good  many  what 
kin  learn  the  playin'  part  of  it  without  no 
teacher ;  but  there  has  to  be  lessons  to  learn 
the  bellers.  Don't  ye  have  no  orgin,  when 
ye  're  at  home  ? "  she  asked  sharply,  as  if  to 
guage  the  social  standing  of  the  new  guest. 

W modestly  confessed  to  never  having 

possessed  such  an  instrument. 

"Down  in  these  parts,"  rejoined  the  young 
woman,  as  she  "  worked  the  bellers  "  into  a 
strain  or  two  of  "  Hold  the  Fort,"  apparently 


Storm-Bound  at  Erie.  127 

to  show  how  easy  it  came  to  trained  feet,  "  no 
house  is  now  considered  quite  up  to  the  fashi'n 
as  ain't  got  a  orgin."  The  rain  being  now 
over,  she  soon  departed,  evidently  much  dis- 
gusted at  VV 's  lack  of  organic  culture. 

The  bed-chamber  into  which  we  were  shown 
was  a  marvel.  It  opened  off  the  main  room 
and  was,  doubtless,  originally  a  cupboard. 
Seven  feet  square,  with  a  broad,  roped  bedstead 
occupying  the  entire  length,  a  bedside  space 
of  but  two  feet  wide  was  left.  Much  of  this 
being  filled  with  butter  firkins,  chains,  a  trunk, 
and  a  miscellaneous  riff-raff  of  household 
lumber,  the  standing-room  was  restricted  to 
two  feet  square,  necessitating  the  use  of  the 
bed  as  a  dressing-place,  after  the  fashion  of  a 
sleeping-car  bunk.  This  cubby-hole  of  a  room 
was  also  the  wardrobe  for  the  women  of 
the  household,  the  walls  above  the  bed  being 
hung  nearly  two  feet  deep  with  the  oddest  col- 
lection of  calico  and  gingham  gowns,  bustles, 
hoopskirts,  hats,  bonnets,  and  winter  under- 
wear I  think  I  had  ever  laid  eyes  on. 

Much  of  this  condition  of  affairs  was  not 
known,  however,  until  next  morning ;  for  it  was 
as  dark  as  Egypt  within,  except  for  a  few  faint 
rays  of  light  which  came  straggling  through 
the  cracks  in  the  board  partition  separating 
us  from  the  sitting-room  candle.  We  had  no 


128  Historic  Waterways. 

sooner  crossed  the  threshold  of  our  little  box 
than  the  creaky  old  cleat  door  was  gently 
closed  upon  us  and  buttoned  by  our  hostess 
upon  the  outside,  as  the  only  means  of  keep- 
ing it  shut ;  and  we  were  left  free  to  grope 
about  among  these  mysteries  as  best  we 
might.  We  had  hardly  recovered  from  our 
astonishment  at  thus  being  locked  into  a  dark 
hole  the  size  of  a  fashionable  lady's  trunk, 
and  were  quietly  laughing  over  this  odd  ad- 
venture, when  the  landlady  applied  her  mouth 
to  a  crack  and  shouted,  as  if  she  would  have 
waked  the  dead  :  "  Hi,  there  !  Ye  'd  better 
shet  the  winder  to  keep  the  bugs  out !  "  A 
few  minutes  later,  returning  to  the  crack,  she 
added,  "  Ef  ye  's  cold  in  the  night,  jest  haul 
down  some  o'  them  clothes  atop  o'  ye  which 
ye  '11  find  on  the  wall." 

Repressing  our  mirth,  we  assured  our  good 
hostess  that  we  would  have  a  due  regard  for 
our  personal  safety.  The  window,  not  at  first 
discernible,  proved  to  be  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
some  two  feet  square,  which  brought  in  little 
enough  fresh  air,  at  the  best.  It  was  fortu- 
nate that  the  night  was  cool,  although  our 
hostess's  best  gowns  were  not  needed  to  sup- 
plement the  horse-blankets  under  which  we 
slept  the  sleep  of  weary  canoeists. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   LAST   DAY   OUT. 

'"THHE  following  day  opened  brightly.  We 
-i-  had  breakfast  in  the  tavern  kitchen,  en 
famillc.  The  husband,  whom  we  had  not 
met  before,  was  a  short,  smooth-faced,  voluble, 
overgrown-boy  sort  of  man.  The  mother  was 
dumpy,  coarse,  and  good-natured.  They  had 
a  greasy,  easy-tempered  daughter  of  eigh- 
teen, with  a  frowsy  head,  and  a  face  like  a  full 
moon  ;  while  the  heir  of  the  household,  some- 
what younger,  was  a  gaping,  grinning  youth 
of  the  Simple  Simon  order,  who  shovelled 
mashed  potatoes  into  his  mouth  alternately 
with  knife  and  fork,  and  took  bites  of  bread 
large  enough  for  a  ravenous  dog.  The  old 
grandmother,  with  a  face  like  parchment  and 
one  gleaming  eye,  sat  in  a  low  rocking-chair 
by  the  stove,  crooning  over  a  corn-cob  pipe 
and  using  the  wood-box  for  a  cuspadore.  She 
had  a  vinegary,  slangy  tongue,  and  being 
9 


130  Historic  Waterways. 

somewhat  deaf,  would  break  in  upon  the  con- 
versation with  remarks  sharper  than  they 
were  pat. 

With  our  host,  a  glib  and  rapid  talker  in  a 
swaggering  tone,  one  could  not  but  be  much 
amused,  as  he  exhibited  a  degree  of  self-ap- 
preciation that  was  decidedly  refreshing.  He 
had  been  a  veteran  in  the  War  of  the  Rebel- 
lion, he  proudly  assured  us,  and  pointed  with 
his  knife  to  his  discharge-paper,  which  was 
hung  up  in  an  old  looking-glass  frame  by  the 
side  of  the  clock. 

"  Gemmen,"  —  he  invariably  thus  addressed 
us,  as  though  we  were  a  coterie  of  checker- 
players  at  a  village  grocery,  —  "  Gemmen, 
when  I  seen  how  them  Johnny  Rebs  was  a  usin1 
our  boys  in  them  prison  pens  down  thar  at 
Andersonville  and  Libbie  and  'roun'  thar, 
I  jist  says  to  myself,  says  I,  '  Joe,  my  boy, 
you  go  now  an'  do  some  'n'  fer  yer  country  ; 
a  crack  shot  like  you  is,  Joe,'  says  I  to  myself, 
'  as  kin  hit  a  duck  on  the  wing,  every  time, 
an'  no  mistake,  ought  n't  ter  be  a-lyin  'roun' 
home  an'  doin'  no'hun  to  put  down  the  re- 
bellion ;  it 's  a  shame,'  says  I,  '  when  our  boys 
is  a-suffr'n'  down  thar  on  Mason  'n'  Dixie's 
line; '  an'  so  I  jined,  an'  I  stuck  her  out,  gem- 
men,  till  the  thing  was  done;  they  ain't  no 
coward  'bout  me,  ef  I  hcv  the  sayin'  of  it ! " 


The  Last  Day  Out.  1 3 1 

"Were  you  wounded,  sir  ?"  asked  W , 

sympathetically. 

"  No,  I  vva'  n't  hurt  at  all,  —  that  is,  so  to 
speak,  wounded.  But  thar  were  a  sort  of  a 
doctor  feller  'round  here  las'  winter,  a-stoppin' 
at  Erie  ;  an'  he  called  at  my  place,  an'  he 
says,  '  No'hun  the  matter  wi'  you,  a-growin' 
out  o'  the  war  ? '  says  he  ;  an'  I  says,  '  No'hun 
that  I  know'd  on,'  says  I,  —  '  I  'm  a-eatin'  my 
reg'l'r  victuals  whin  I  don't  have  the  shakes,' 
says  I.  '  Ah  ! '  says  he,  '  you  've  the  shakes  ? ' 
he  says  ;  '  an'  don't  you  know  you  ketched  'em 
in  the  war  ? '  'I  ketched  'em  a-gettin'  m'lairy 
in  the  bottoms,'  says  I,  '  a-duck-shootin',  in 
which  I  kin  hit  a  bird  on  the  wing  every  time 
an'  no  mistake,'  says  I.  '  Now,'  he  says,  'hold 
on  a  minute  ;  you  did  n't  hev  shakes  afore  the 
war  ? '  says  he.  '  Not  as  much,'  I  says,  not 
knowin'  what  the  feller  was  drivin'  at,  '  but 
some  ;  I  was  a  kid  then,  and  kids  don't  shake 
much,'  says  I.  '  Hold  up  !  hold  up  !'  he  says, 
'  you  're  wrong,  an'  ye  know  it ;  ye  don't  hev 
no  mem'ry  goin'  back  so  far  about  phys'cal 
conditions,'  says  he.  Well,  gemmen,  sure 
'nough,  when  I  kem  to  think  things  over, 
and  talk  it  up  with  the  doctor  chap,  I  'lowed 
he  was  right.  Then  he  let  on  he  was  a  claim 
agint,  an'  I  let  him  try  his  hand  on  workin' 
up  a  pension  for  me,  for  he  says  I  wa'n't  to 


132  Historic  Waterways. 

pay  no'hun  'less  the  thing  went  through.  But 
I  hearn  tell,  down  at  Erie,  that  they  is  a-goin' 
agin  these  private  claims  nowadays  at  Wash- 
in'ton,  an'  I  don't  know  what  my  show  is. 
But  I  ought  to  hev  a  pension,  an'  no  mis- 
take, gemmen.  They  wa'n't  no  fellers  did 
harder  work  'n  me  in  the  war,  ef  I  do  say  it 
myself." 

W ventured  to  ask  what  battles  our 

host  had  been  in. 

"Well,  I  wa'n't  in  no  reg'lar  battle,  —  that 
is,  right  in  one.  Thar  was  a  few  of  us  de- 
tailed ter  tek  keer  of  gov'ment  prop'ty  near 
C'lumby,  South  Car'liny,  when  Wade  Hamp- 
tin  was  a-burnin'  things  down  thar.  We 
was  four  miles  away  from  the  fightin,'  an' 
I  was  jest  a-achin'  to  git  in  thar.  What  I 
wanted  was  to  git  a  bead  on  ol'  Wade  him- 
self, —  an'  ef  I  do  say  it  myself,  the  ol'  man 
would  'a'  hunted  his  hole,  gemmen.  \Vhen  I 
get  a  sight  on  a  duck,  gemmen,  that  duck'  s 
mine,  an'  no  mistake.  An'  ef  I'd  'a'  sighted 
Wade  Hamptin,  then  good-by  Wade  !  I  tol' 
the  cap'n  what  I  wanted,  but  he  said  as  how 
I  was  more  use  a-takin'  keer  of  the  supplies. 
That  cap'n  had  n't  no  enterprise  'bout  him. 
Things  would  'a'  been  different  at  C'lumby, 
ef  I  'd  had  my  way,  an'  don't  ye  forgit  it ! 
There  was  heaps  o'  blood  spilt  unnecessary 


The  Last  Day  Out.  133 

by  us  boys,  a-fightin'  to  save  the  ol'  flag,  — 
an'  we  're  willin'  to  do  it  agin,  gemmen,  an' 
no  mistake ! " 

The  old  woman  had  been  listening  eagerly 
to  this  narrative,  evidently  quite  proud  of  her 
boy's  achievements,  but  not  hearing  all  that 
had  been  said.  She  now  broke  out,  in  shrill, 
high  notes,  — 

"Joe  ought  ter  'a'  had  a  pension,  he  had,  wi' 
his  chills  'tracted  in  the  war.  He  vvuk'd  hard, 
Joe  did,  a  hul  ten  months,  doin'  calvary  ser- 
vice, the  last  year  o'  the  war  ;  an'  he  kem 
nigh  onter  shootin'  ol'  Wade  Hamptin,  an' 
a-makin'  a  name  for  himself,  an'  p'r'aps  a  good 
office  with  a  title  an'  all  that ;  only  they  kep' 
him  back  with  the  ammernition  wagin,  'count 
o'  the  kurnil's  jealousy,  —  for  Joe  is  a  dead 
shot,  ma'am,  if  I  'm  his  mother  as  says  it,  and 
keeps  the  family  in  ducks  half  the  year  'roun', 
an'  the  kurnil  know'd  Joe  was  a-bilin'  over  to 
git  to  the  front." 

"  Ah  !  you  were  in  the  cavalry  service, 
then  ?  "  I  said  to  our  landlord,  byway  of  help- 
ing along  the  conversation. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  broken  by 
Simple  Simon,  who  wiped  his  knife  on  his 
tongue,  and  made  a  wild  attack  on  the  butter 
dish. 

"  Pa,  he  druv  a  mule  team  for  gov'ment ; 


134  Historic  Waterways. 

an'  we  got  a  picter  in  the  album,  tuk  of  him 
when  he  were  just  a-goin'  inter  battle,  with  a 
big  ammernition  wagin  on  behind.  Pa,  in 
the  picter,  is  a-ridin'  o'  one  o'  the  mules,  an' 
any  one  'd  know  him  right  off." 

This  sudden  revelation  of  the  strength  of 
the  veteran's  claim  to  glory  and  a  pension, 
put  a  damper  upon  his  reminiscences  of  the 
war;  and  giving  the  innocent  Simon  a  savage 
leer,  he  soon  contrived  to  turn  the  conversa- 
tion upon  his  wonderful  exploits  in  duck- 
shooting  and  fishing  —  industries  in  the 
pursuit  of  which  he,  with  so  many  of  his 
fellow-farmers  on  the  bottoms,  appeared  to  be 
more  eager  than  in  tilling  the  soil. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  the  breakfast  we 
were  eating  was  a  special  spread  in  honor  of 
probably  the  only  guests  the  quondam  tavern 
had  had  these  many  months.  Canoeists 
must  not  be  too  particular  about  the  fare  set 
before  them  ;  but  on  this  occasion  we  were 
able  to  swallow  but  a  few  mouthfuls  of  the 
repast  and  our  lunch-basket  was  drawn  on 
as  soon  as  we  were  once  more  afloat.  It  is  a 
great  pity  that  so  many  farmers'  wives  are 
the  wretched  cooks  they  are.  With  an  abun- 
dance of  good  materials  already  about  them, 
and  rare  opportunities  for  readily  acquiring 
more,  tens  of  thousands  of  rural  dames  do 


The  Last  Day  Out.  135 

manage  to  prepare  astonishingly  inedible  meals, 
—  sour,  doughy  bread  ;  potatoes  which,  if 
boiled,  are  but  half  cooked,  and  if  mashed,  are 
floated  with  abominable  butter  or  pastey  flour 
gravy  ;  salt  pork  either  swimming  in  a  bowl 
of  grease  or  fried  to  a  leathery  chip  ;  tea 
and  coffee  extremely  weak  or  strong  enough 
to  kill  an  ox,  as  chance  may  dictate,  and  inev- 
itably adulterated  beyond  recognition  ;  eggs 
that  are  spoiled  by  being  fried  to  the  consis- 
tency of  rubber,  in  a  pan  of  fat  deep  enough 
to  float  doughnuts  ;  while  the  biscuits  are 
yellow  and  bitter  with  saleratus.  This  bill  of 
fare,  warranted  to  destroy  the  best  of  appe- 
tites, will  be  recognized  by  too  many  of  my 
readers  as  that  to  be  found  at  the  average 
American  farm-house,  although  we  all  doubt- 
less know  of  some  magnificent  exceptions, 
which  only  prove  the  rule.  We  establish  pub- 
lic cooking-schools  in  our  cities,  and  econo- 
mists like  Edward  Atkinson  and  hygienists 
like  the  late  Dio  Lewis  assiduously  explain 
to  the  metropolitan  poor  their  processes  of 
making  a  tempting  meal  out  of  nothing  ;  but 
our  most  crying  need  in  this  country  to-day 
is  a  training-school  for  rural  housewives, 
where  they  may  be  taught  to  evolve  a  respect- 
able and  economical  spread  out  of  the  great 
abundance  with  which  they  are  surrounded. 


136  Historic  Waterways. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  country  boys  drift  to  the 
cities,  where  they  can  obtain  properly  cooked 
food  and  live  like  rational  beings. 

The  river  continues  to  widen  as  we  ap- 
proach the  junction  with  the  Mississippi,  — 
thirty-nine  miles  below  Erie, —  and  to  assume 
the  characteristics  of  the  great  river  into 
which  it  pours  its  flood.  The  islands  increase 
in  number  and  in  size,  some  of  them  being 
over  a  mile  in  length  by  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  breadth ;  the  bottoms  frequently  re- 
solve themselves  into  wide  morasses,  thickly 
studded  with  great  elms,  maples,  and  cotton- 
woods,  among  which  the  spring  flood  has 
wrought  direful  destruction.  The  scene  be- 
comes peculiarly  desolate  and  mournful,  often 
giving  one  the  impression  of  being  far  removed 
from  civilization,  threading  the  course  of  some 
hitherto  unexplored  stream.  Penetrate  the 
deep  fringe  of  forest  and  morass  on  foot, 
however,  and  smiling  prairies  are  found  be- 
yond, stretching  to  the  horizon  and  cut  up 
into  prosperous  farms.  The  river  is  here 
from  a  half  to  three-quarters  of  a  mile  broad, 
but  the  shallows  and  snags  are  as  numerous 
as  ever  and  navigation  is  continually  attended 
with  some  danger  of  being  either  grounded  or 
capsized. 

Now  and  then  the  banks   become  firmer, 


The  Last  Day  Out.  137 

with  charming  vistas  of  high,  wooded  hills 
coming  down  to  the  water's  edge ;  broad 
savannas  intervene,  decked  out  with  varie- 
gated flora,  prominent  being  the  elsewhere 
rare  atragene  Americana,  the  spider-wort,  the 
little  blue  lobelia,  and  the  cup-weed.  These 
savannas  are  apparently  overflowed  in  times 
of  exceptionally  high  water  ;  and  there  are 
evidences  that  the  stream  has  occasionally 
changed  its  course,  through  the  sunbaked 
banks  of  ashy-gray  mud,  in  years  long  past. 

At  Cleveland,  a  staid  little  village  on  an 
open  plain,  which  we  reached  soon  after  the 
dinner-hour,  there  is  an  unused  mill-dam  go- 
ing to  decay.  In  the  centre,  the  main  current 
has  washed  out  a  breadth  of  three  or  four 
rods,  through  which  the  pent-up  stream 
rushes  with  a  roar  and  a  hundred  whirlpools. 
It  is  an  ugly  crevasse,  but  a  careful  examina- 
tion showed  the  passage  to  be  feasible,  so  we 
retreated  an  eighth  of  a  mile  up-stream,  took 
our  bearings,  and  went  through  with  a  speed 
that  nearly  took  our  breath  away  and  appeared 
to  greatly  astonish  a  half-dozen  fishermen  idly 
angling  from  the  dilapidated  apron  on  either 
side.  It  was  like  going  through  Cleveland  on 
the  fast  mail. 

Fourteen  miles  above  the  mouth  of  the 
Rock,  is  the  Chicago,  Burlington  and  Quincy 


138  Historic  Waterways. 

railroad  bridge,  with  Carbon  Cliff  on  the 
north  and  Coloma  on  the  south,  each  one 
mile  from  the  river.  The  day  had  been  dark, 
with  occasional  slight  showers  and  a  stiff  head 
wind,  so  that  progress  had  been  slow.  We 
began  to  deem  it  worth  while  to  inquire  about 
the  condition  of  affairs  at  the  mouth.  Under 
the  bridge,  sitting  on  a  bowlder  at  the  base 
of  the  north  abutment,  an  intelligent-appearing 
man  in  a  yellow  oiled-cloth  suit,  accompanied 
by  a  bright-eyed  lad,  peacefully  fished.  Stop- 
ping to  question  them,  we  found  them  both 
well-informed  as  to  the  railway  time-tables  of 
the  vicinity  and  the  topography  of  the  lower 
river.  They  told  us  that  the  scenery  for  the 
next  fourteen  miles  was  similar,  in  its  dark 
desolation,  to  that  which  we  had  passed 
through  during  the  day  ;  also  that  owing  to 
the  great  number  of  islands  and  the  labyrinth 
of  channels  both  in  the  Rock  and  on  the  east 
side  of  the  Mississippi,  we  should  find  it 
practically  impossible  to  know  when  we  had 
reached  the  latter  ;  we  should  doubtless  pro- 
ceed several  miles  below  the  mouth  of  the 
Rock  before  we  noticed  that  the  current  was 
setting  persistently  south,  and  then  would 
have  an  exceedingly  difficult  task  in  retracing 
our  course  and  pulling  up-stream  to  our  des- 
tination, Rock  Island,  which  is  six  miles 


The  Last  Day  Out.  1 39 

north  of  the  delta  of  the  Rock.  They  strongly 
advised  our  going  into  Rock  Island  by  rail. 
The  present  landing  was  the  last  chance  to 
strike  a  railway,  except  at  Milan,  twelve  miles 
below.  It  was  now  so  late  that  we  could  not 
hope  to  reach  Milan  before  dark  ;  there  were 
no  stopping-places  en  route,  and  Milan  was 
farther  from  Rock  Island  than  either  Carbon 
Cliff  or  Coloma,  with  less  frequent  railway 
service. 

For  these  and  other  reasons,  we  decided  to 
accept  this  advice,  and  to  ship  from  Coloma. 
Taking  a  final  spurt  down  to  a  ferry-landing 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond,  on  the  south 
bank,  we  beached  our  canoe  at  5.05  P.  M., 
having  voyaged  two  hundred  and  sixty-seven 
miles  in  somewhat  less  than  seven  days  and 

a  half.     Leaving  W to  gossip  with  the 

ferryman's  wife,  who  came  down  to  the  bank 
with  an  armful  of  smiling  twins,  to  view  a 
craft  so  strange  to  her  vision,  I  went  up  into 
the  country  to  engage  a  team  to  take  our 
boat  upon  its  last  portage.  After  having 
been  gruffly  refused  by  a  churlish  farmer, 
who  doubtless  recognized  no  difference  be- 
tween a  canoeist  and  a  tramp,  I  struck  a  bar- 
gain with  a  negro  cultivating  a  cornfield  with 
a  span  of  coal-black  mules,  and  in  half  an 
hour  he  was  at  the  ferry-landing  with  a 


140  Historic  Waterways. 

wagon.  Washing  out  the  canoe  and  chain- 
ing in  the  oars  and  paddle,  we  lifted  it  into 
the  wagon-box,  piled  our  baggage  on  top,  and 
set  off  over  the  hills  and  fields  to  Coloma, 

W and  I  trudging  behind  the  dray,  ankle 

deep  in  mud,  for  the  late  rains  had  well  moist- 
ened the  black  prairie  soil.  It  was  a  unique 
and  picturesque  procession. 

In  less  than  an  hour  we  were  in  Rock  Isl- 
and, and  our  canoe  was  on  its  way  by  freight 
to  Portage,  preparatory  to  my  tour  with  our 
friend  the  Doctor,  —  down  the  Fox  River  of 
Green  Bay. 


THE  FOX   RIVER  (OF  GREEN 
BAY). 


THE   FOX   RIVER  (OF  GREEN-  BAY). 


M 


FIRST  LETTER. 
SMITH'S  ISLAND. 

PACKWAUKEE,  Wis.,  June  7,  1887. 

Y  DEAR  W :  It  was  2.25  p.  M.  yes- 
terday when  the  Doctor  and  I  launched 
the  old  canoe  upon  the  tan-colored  water  of 
the  government  canal  at  Portage,  and  pointed 
her  nose  in  the  direction  of  the  historic  Fox. 
You  will  remember  that  the  canal  traverses 
the  low  sandy  plain  which  separates  the  Fox 
from  the  Wisconsin  on  a  line  very  nearly 
parallel  to  where  tradition  locates  Earth's  and 
Lecuyer's  wagon-portage  a  hundred  years 
ago.  It  was  a  profitable  business  in  the 
olden  days,  when  the  Fox-Wisconsin  highway 
was  extensively  patronized,  to  thus  transport 
river  craft  over  this  mile  and  a  half  of  bog. 


144  Historic  Waterways. 

The  toll1  collected  by  these  French  Creoles 
and  their  successors  down  to  the  days  of 
Paquette  added  materially  to  the  cost  of  goods 
and  peltries.  In  times  of  exceptionally  high 
water  the  Wisconsin  overflowed  into  the  Fox, 
which  is  ordinarily  five  feet  lower  than  the 
former,  and  canoes  could  readily  cross  the 
portage  afloat,  quite  independent  of  the  for- 
warding agents.  In  this  generation  the  Wis- 
consin is  kept  to  her  bounds  by  levees  ;  but 
the  government  canal  furnishes  a  free  high- 
way. The  railroads  have  spoiled  water-navi- 
gation, however  ;  and  the  canal,  like  the  most 
of  the  Fox  and  Wisconsin  river-improvement, 
is  fast  relapsing  into  a  costly  relic.  The  tim- 
bered sides  are  rotting,  the  peat  and  sand  are 
bulging  them  in,  the  locks  are  shaky  and  worm- 
eaten,  and  several  moss-covered  barges  and  a 
stranded  old  ruin  of  a  steamboat  turned  out  to 
grass  tell  a  sad  story  of  official  abandonment. 
The  scenic  effects  from  the  canal  are  not 
enlivening.  There  is  a  wide  expanse  of 
bog,  relieved  by  some  grass-grown  railway 
side-tracks  and  the  forlorn  freight-depot  of 
the  Wisconsin  Central  road.  A  few  bat- 
tered sheds  yet  remain  of  old  Fort  Winne- 
bago  on  a  lonesome  hillock  near  where  the 

1  Ten  dollars  per  boat,  and  fifty  cents  per  100  Ibs.  of 
goods. 


Smitlis  Island.  145 

canal  joins  the  Fox ;  while  beyond  to  the 
north  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  there  is  a 
stretch  of  wild-rice  swamp,  through  which  the 
government  dredges  have  scooped  a  narrow 
channel,  about  as  picturesque  as  a  cranberry- 
marsh  drain. 

Life  at  Fort  Winnebago  during  the  second 
quarter  of  this  century  must  have  been  lone- 
some indeed,  its  nearest  neighbors  being  Forts 
Crawford  and  Howard,  each  nearly  two  hun- 
dred miles  away.  A  mile  or  two  to  the  south- 
west is  a  pretty  wooded  ridge,  girting  the 
Wisconsin  River,  upon  which  the  city  of  Por- 
tage is  now  situated.  Then  it  was  a  forest, 
and  the  camping-ground  of  Winnebagoes,  who 
hung  around  the  post  in  the  half-threatening 
attitude  of  beggars  who  might  make  trouble 
if  not  adequately  bribed  with  gifts.  The  fort 
was  erected  in  1828-29  at  the  solicitation  of 
John  Jacob  Astor  (the  American  Fur  Com- 
pany), to  protect  his  trade  against  encroach- 
ments from  these  Winnebago  rascals,  who  had 
become  quite  impudent  during  the  Red  Bird 
disturbance  at  Prairie  du  Chien,  in  1827.  Jef- 
ferson Davis  was  one  of  the  three  first-lieu- 
tenants in  the  original  garrison,  in  which 
Harney,  of  Mexican  war  fame,  was  a  captain. 
Davis  was  detailed  to  the  charge  of  a  squad 
sent  to  cut  timbers  for  the  fort  in  a  Wiscon- 
10 


146  Historic  Waterways. 

sin  River  pinery  just  above  the  portage,  and 
thus  became  one  of  the  pioneer  lumbermen  of 
Wisconsin.  It  is  related,  too,  that  Davis, 
who  was  an  amateur  cabinet-maker,  designed 
some  very  odd  wardrobes  and  other  pieces  of 
furniture  for  the  officers'  chambers,  which 
were  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  every 
occupant  for  years  to  come.1  In  1853,  when 
Secretary  of  War,  the  whilom  subaltern  is- 
sued an  order  for  the  sale  of  the  fort  so 
intimately  connected  with  his  army  career, 
and  its  crazy  buildings  henceforth  became 
tenements. 

For  a  dozen  miles  beyond  the  Fox  River 
end  of  the  canal  the  river,  as  I  have  before 
said,  is  dredged  out  through  the  swamp  like  a 
big  ditch.  The  artificial  banks  of  sand  and 
peat  which  line  it  are  generally  well  grown 
with  mare's-tail,  beautiful  clumps  of  wild 
roses,  purple  vetch,  great  beds  of  sensitive 
ferns,  and  masses  of  Pennsylvania  anemone, 
while  the  pools  are  decked  with  water-anem- 
one. Nature  is  doing  her  best  to  hide  the 
deformities  wrought  by  man.  The  valley  is 
generally  about  a  mile  in  width,  ridges  of 
wooded  knolls  hemming  in  the  broad  expanse 
of  reeds  and  rice  and  willow  clumps.  Occa- 

1  Described  in  Mrs.  Kinzie's  "  Wau-Bun,"  which  gives 
many  interesting  reminiscences  of  life  at  the  old  post. 


Smitlts  Island.  147 

sionally  the  engineers  have  allowed  the  ditch 
to  swerve  in  graceful  lines  and  to  hug  closely 
the  firmer  soil  in  the  lower  benches  of  the 
knolls,  where  the  banks  of  red  and  yellow  clay 
attain  a  height  of  ten  or  a  dozen  feet,  crowned 
with  oaks  and  elms  or  pleasant  glades.  A  mod- 
est farm-house  now  and  then  appears  upon 
such  a  shore,  with  the  front  yard  running 
down  to  the  water's  edge. 

The  afternoon  shadows  are  lengthening, 
and  farmers'  boys  are  leading  their  horses 
down  to  drink,  after  the  day's  labor  in  the 
fields.  Black  and  yellow  collies  are  gathering 
in  the  cows,  —  some  of  them  soberly  and 
quickly  corral  obedient  herds,  while  others 
yelp  and  snap  at  the  heads  of  the  affrighted 
animals,  and  in  the  noise  and  confusion  seem 
to  make  but  little  progress.  Collies  have 
human-like  infirmities. 

We  had  supper  at  seven  o'clock,  under  a 
tree  which  overhangs  a  weedy  bank,  with 
a  high  pasture  back  of  us,  sloping  up  to  a 
wooded  hill,  at  the  base  of  which  is  a  cluster 
of  three  neatly  painted  farm-houses,  whose 
dogs  bayed  at  us  from  the  distance,  but  did 
not  venture  to  approach.  A  half-hour  later, 
the  sun's  setting  warned  us  that  quarters  for 
the  night  must  soon  be  secured.  Stopping 
at  the  base  of  a  boggy  pasture-wood,  we  as- 


148  Historic  Waterways. 

cended  through  a  sterile  field,  accursed  with 
sheep-sorrel,  and  through  gaps  in  several  crazy 
fences,  to  what  had  seemed  to  us  from  the 
river  a  comfortable,  repose-inviting  house, 
commandingly  situated  on  a  hill-top  among 
the  trees.  Near  approach  revealed  a  scene 
of  desolation.  The  barriers  were  down,  two 
spare-ribbed  horses  were  nipping  a  scant  sup- 
per among  the  weeds  in  a  dark  corner  of  an 
otherwise  deserted  barn-yard,  the  window- 
sashes  were  generally  paneless,  the  porch  was 
in  a  state  of  collapse,  sand-burrs  choked  the 
paths,  and  to  our  knock  at  the  kitchen  door 
the  only  response  was  a  hollow  echo.  The  de- 
serted house  looked  uncanny  in  the  gloaming, 
and  we  retired  to  our  boat  wondering  what 
evil  spell  had  been  cast  over  the  place,  and 
whether  the  horses  in  the  barn-yard  had  been 
deliberately  left  behind  to  die  of  starvation. 

The  river  now  takes  upon  itself  many  devi- 
ous windings  in  a  great  widespread  over  two 
miles  broad.  The  government  engineers  have 
here  left  it  in  all  its  original  crookedness,  and 
the  twists  and  turns  are  as  fantastic  and  com- 
plicated as  those  of  the  Teutonic  pretzel  in  its 
native  land.  As  the  twilight  thickened,  great 
swarms  of  lake-flies  rose  from  the  sedges  and 
beat  their  way  up-stream,  the  noise  of  their 
multitudinous  wings  being  at  times  like  the 


SmitJi  s  Island.  149 

roar  of  a  neighboring  waterfall,  as  they  formed 
a  ceaselessly  moving  canopy  over  our  heads. 
It  was  noticeable  that  the  flies  kept  very 
closely  to  the  windings  of  the  river,  as  if 
guided  only  by  the  glittering  flood  beneath 
them.  The  mas^s  of  the  procession  kept  its 
way  up  the  stream,  but  upon  the  outskirts 
could  be  seen  a  few  individuals,  apparently 
larger  than  the  average,  flying  back  and  forth 
as  if  marshaling  the  host. 

Two  miles  below  the  deserted  house,  we 
stopped  opposite  another  marshy  bank,  where 
a  rude  skiff  lay  tied  to  a  shaky  fence  project- 
ing far  out  into  the  reeds.  Pushing  our  way 
in,  we  beached  in  the  slimy  shore-mud  and 
scrambled  upon  the  land,  where  the  tall  grass 
was  now  as  sloppy  with  dew  as  though  it  had 
been  rained  upon.  It  was  getting  quite  dark 
now,  but  through  a  cleft  in  the  hills  the  moon 
was  seen  to  be  just  rising  above  a  cloud- 
bathed  horizon,  and  a  small  house,  neat-look- 
ing, though  destitute  of  paint,  was  sharply 
silhouetted  against  the  lightening  sky,  at  the 
head  of  a  gentle  slope.  By  the  time  we  had 
waded  through  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  thriving 
timothy  we  were  wet  to  the  skin  below  the 
knees  and  dusted  all  over  with  pollen. 

Seven  children,  mostly  boys,  and  gently  step- 
laddered  down  from  fourteen  years,  greeted 


150  Historic  Waterways. 

us  at  the  summit  with  a  loud  "  Hello !  "  in 
shrill  unison.  They  stood  in  a  huddle  by 
the  woodpile,  holding  down  and  admonishing 
a  very  mild-looking  collie,  which  they  evi- 
dently imagined  was  filled  with  an  overween- 
ing desire  instantly  to  devour  us.  "  Hello 
there  !  who  be  ye  ?  "  shouted  the  oldest  lad  and 
the  spokesman  of  the  party.  He  was  a  tall, 
spare  boy,  and  by  the  light  of  the  rising 
moon  we  could  see  he  was  sharp-featured, 
good-natured,  and  intelligent. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  bantering,  "  that 's 
what  we  'd  like  to  know.  You  tell  us  who 
you  are,  and  we  '11  tell  you  who  we  are.  Now 
that 's  fair,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  respectfully,  as 
he  touched  his  rimless  straw  hat;  "  our 
name 's  Smith  ;  all  'cept  that  boy  there," 
pointing  to  a  sturdy  little  twelve-year-old, 
"  an'  he  's  a  Bixby,  he  is." 

"  The  Smith  family  's  a  big  one,  I  should 
say,"  the  Doctor  remarked,  as  he  audibly 
counted  the  party. 

"  Oh,  this  ain't  all  on  'em,  sir  ;  there  's  two 
in  the  house,  a-hidin'  'cause  o'  strangers,  be- 
sides the  baby,  which  ma  and  pa  has  with 
'em  inter  Packwaukee,  a-shoppin'.  This  is 
Smith's  Island,  sir.  Did  n't  ye  ever  hear  o' 
Smith's  Island  ? " 


Smitlis  Island.  151 

We  acknowledged  our  ignorance,  up  to 
this  time,  of  the  existence  of  any  such  feature 
in  the  geography  of  Wisconsin.  But  the  lad, 
now  joined  by  the  others,  who  had  by  this 
time  vanquished  their  bashfulness  and  all 
wanted  to  talk  at  once,  assured  us  that  we 
were  actually  on  Smith's  Island ;  that  Smith's 
Island  had  an  area  of  one  hundred  acres,  was 
surrounded  on  the  east  by  the  river,  and  every- 
where else  by  either  a  bayou  or  a  marsh  that 
had  to  be  crossed  with  a  boat  in  the  spring; 
that  there  were  three  families  of  Smiths  there, 
and  this  group  represented  but  one  branch  of 
the  clan. 

"  We  're  all  Smiths,  sir,  but  this  boy,  who's 
a  Bixby  ;  an'  he 's  our  cousin  and  only  a- 
visitin'." 

After  having  gained  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  topography  and  population  of  Smith's 
Island,  we  ventured  to  ask  whether  it  was  pre- 
sumable that  the  parental  Smiths,  when  they 
returned  home  from  the  village,  would  be  wil- 
ling to  entertain  us  for  the  night. 

"  Guess  not,  sir,"  replied  the  spokesman, 
the  idea  appearing  to  strike  him  humorously  ; 
"there's  so  many-of  us  now,  sir,  that  we're 
packed  in  pretty  close,  an'  the  Bixby  boy  has 
to  sleep  atop  o'  the  orgin.  But  I  think  Uncle 
Jim  might ;  he  kept  a  tramp  over  night  once, 


152  Historic  Waterways. 

an'  give  him  his  breakfus',  too,  in  the  bar- 
gain." 

The  prospect  as  to  Uncle  Jim  was  certainly 
encouraging,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to  go 
further.  It  seemed  necessary  to  stop  on 
Smith's  Island  for  the  night,  even  if  we  were 
restricted  to  quartering  in  the  corn-crib  which 
the  Smith  boy  kindly  put  at  our  disposal  in 
case  of  Uncle  Jim's  refusal,  —  with  the  addi- 
tional inducement  that  he  would  lend  us  the 
collie  for  company  and  to  "  keep  off  rats," 
which  he  intimated  were  phenomenally  nu- 
merous on  this  swamp-girt  hill. 

The  entire  troop  of  urchins  accompanied  us 
down  to  the  bank  to  make  fast  for  the  night, 
and  helped  us  up  with  our  baggage  to  the 
corn-crib,  where  we  disturbed  a  large  family 
of  hens  which  were  using  the  airy  structure 
as  a  summer  dormitory.  Then,  with  the  two 
oldest  boys  as  pilots,  we  set  off  along  the 
ridge  to  find  the  domicile  of  Uncle  Jim,  who 
had  established  a  reputation  for  hospitality  by 
having  once  entertained  a  way-worn  tramp. 

The  moon  had  now  swung  clear  of  the 
trees  on  the  edge  of  the  river  basin,  and 
gleamed  through  a  great  cleft  in  the  blue- 
black  clouds,  investing  the  landscape  with  a 
luminous  glow.  Along  the  eastern  horizon  a 
dark  forest-girt  ridge  hemmed  in  the  reedy 


Smitlis  Island.  153 

widespread,  through  which  the  gleaming  Fox 
twisted  and  doubled  upon  itself  like  a  silvery 
serpent  in  agony.  The  Indians,  who  have  an 
eye  to  the  picturesque  in  Nature,  tell  us  that 
once  a  monster  snake  lay  down  for  the  night 
in  the  swamp  between  the  portage  and  the  lake 
of  the  Winnebagoes.  The  dew  accumulated 
upon  it  as  it  lay,  and  when  the  morning  came 
it  wriggled  and  shook  the  water  from  its  back, 
and  disappeared  down  the  river  which  it  had 
thus  created  in  its  nocturnal  bed.  I  had 
never  fully  appreciated  the  aptness  of  the 
legend  until  last  night,  when  I  had  that 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  valley  of  the  Fox 
from  the  summit  of  Smith's  Island.  To  our 
left,  the  timothy-field  sloped  gracefully  down 
to  the  sedgy  couch  of  the  serpent;  to  our 
right,  there  were  pastures  and  oak  openings, 
with  glimpses  of  the  moonlit  bayou  below, 
across  which  a  dark  line  led  to  a  forest, —  the 
narrow  roadway  leading  from  Smith's  to  the 
outer  world.  At  the  edge  of  a  small  wood- 
lot  our  guides  stopped,  telling  us  to  keep  on 
along  the  path,  over  two  stiles  and  through  a 
barn-yard  gate,  till  we  saw  a  light ;  the  light 
would  be  Uncle  Jim's. 

A  cloud  was  by  this  time  overcasting  the 
moon,  and  a  distant  rumble  told  us  that  the 
night  would  be  stormy.  Groping  our  way 


154  Historic  Waterways. 

through  the  copse,  we  passed  the  barriers, 
and,  according  to  promise,  the  blinding  light 
of  a  kerosene  lamp  standing  on  the  ledge 
of  an  open  window  burst  upon  us.  Then  a 
door  opened,  and  the  form  of  a  tall,  stalwart 
man  stood  upon  the  threshold,  a  striking 
silhouette.  It  was  Uncle  Jim  peering  into 
the  darkness,  for  he  had  heard  footsteps  in 
the  yard.  We  were  greeted  cordially  on  the 
porch,  and  shown  into  a  cosey  sitting-room, 
where  Uncle  Jim  had  been  reading  his  weekly 
paper,  and  Uncle  Jim's  wife,  smiling  sweetly 
amid  her  curl-papers,  was  engaged  on  a  bit  of 
crochet.  Charmingly  hospitable  people  they 
are.  They  have  been  married  but  a  year  or 
two,  are  without  children,  and  have  a  pleasant 
cottage  furnished  simply  but  in  excellent  taste. 
Such  delightful  little  homes  are  rare  in  the 
country,  and  the  Doctor  could  n't  help  telling 
Uncle  Jim  so,  whereat  the  latter  was  very 
properly  pleased.  Uncle  Jim  is  a  fine-look- 
ing, manly  fellow,  six  feet  two  in  his  stock- 
ings, he  told  us ;  and  his  pretty,  blooming 
wife,  though  young,  has  the  fine  manners  of 
the  olden  school.  We  were  earnestly  invited 
to  stop  for  the  night  before  we  had  fairly 
stated  our  case,  and  in  five  minutes  were 
talking  on  politics,  general  news,  and  agri- 
culture, as  though  we  had  always  lived  on 


Smith's  Island.  155 

Smith's  Island  and  had  just  dropped  in  for  an 
evening's  chat.  I  am  sure  you  would  have 

enjoyed  it,  \V ,  it  was  such  a  contrast  to 

our  night  at  the  Erie  tavern,  —  only  a  week 
ago,  though  it  seems  a  month.  One  sees 
and  feels  so  much,  canoeing,  that  the  days 
are  like  weeks  of  ordinary  travel.  Two  hun- 
dred miles  by  river  are  more  full  of  the 
essence  of  life  than  two  thousand  by  rail. 

We  had  an  excellent  bed  and  an  appetizing 
breakfast.  The  flood-gates  of  heaven  had 
been  opened  during  the  night,  and  Smith's 
Island  shaken  to  its  peaty  foundations  by 
great  thunder-peals.  Uncle  Jim  was  happy, 
for  the  pasturage  would  be  improved,  and  the 
corn  crop  would  have  a  "  show."  Uncle 
Jim's  wife  said  there  would  now  be  milk 
enough  to  make  butter  for  market ;  and  the 
hens  would  do  better,  for  somehow  they  never 
would  lay  regularly  during  the  drought  we 
had  been  experiencing.  And  so  we  talked 
on  while  the  "  clearing  showers "  lasted.  I 
told  Uncle  Jim  that  I  was  surprised  to  see 
him  raising  anything  at  all  in  what  was  ap- 
parently sand.  He  acknowledged  that  the 
soil  was  light,  and  inclined  to  blow  away  on 
the  slightest  aerial  provocation,  but  he  never- 
theless managed  to  get  twenty  bushels  of 
wheat  to  the  acre,  and  the  lowlands  gave  him 


156  Historic  Waterways. 

an  abundance  of  hay  and  pasturage.  He  was 
decidedly  in  favor  of  mixed  crops,  himself, 
and  was  gradually  getting  into  the  stock  line, 
as  he  wanted  a  crop  that  could  "  walk  itself 
into  market."  The  Doctor  inquired  about 
the  health  of  the  neighborhood,  which  he 
found  to  be  excellent.  He  is  much  of  a  gal- 
lant, you  know ;  and  Uncle  Jim's  wife  was 
pleasantly  flustered  when,  in  his  most  win- 
ning tones,  the  disciple  of  ./Esculapius  de- 
clared that  the  climate  that  could  produce 
such  splendid  complexions  as  hers  —  and 
Uncle  Jim's  —  must  indeed  be  rated  as  avail- 
able for  a  sanitarium. 

By  a  quarter  to  eight  o'clock  this  morning 
the  storm  had  ceased,  and  the  eastern  sky 
brightened.  Our  kind  friends  bade  us  a  cheery 
farewell,  we  retraced  our  steps  to  the  corn- 
crib,  the  Smith  boys  helped  us  down  with 
our  load,  and  just  as  our  watches  touched 
eight  we  shoved  off  into  the  stream,  and  were 
once  more  afloat  upon  the  serpentine  trail. 

These  great  wild-rice  widespreads  — 
sloughs,  the  natives  call  them  —  are  doubt- 
less the  beds  of  ancient  lakes.  In  coursing 
through  them,  the  bayous,  the  cul-de-sacs,  are 
so  frequent,  and  the  stream  switches  off  upon 
such  unexpected  tangents,  that  it  is  sometimes 
perplexing  to  ascertain  which  body  of  sluggish 


SmitJis  Island.  157 

water  is  the  main  channel.  Marquette  found 
this  out  when  he  ascended  the  Fox  in  1673. 
He  says,  in  his  relation  of  the  voyage,  "  The 
way  is  so  cut  up  by  marshes  and  little  lakes 
that  it  is  easy  to  go  astray,  especially  as  the 
river  is  so  covered  with  wild  oats  [wild  rice] 
that  you  can  hardly  discover  the  channel ; 
hence,  we  had  good  need  of  our  two  guides." 

Little  bog-islands,  heavily  grown  with  as- 
pens and  willows,  occasionally  dot  the  seas  of 
rice.  They  often  fairly  hum  with  the  varied 
notes  of  the  red-winged  blackbird,  the  rusty 
grackle,  and  our  American  robin,  while  whis- 
tling plovers  are  seen  upon  the  mud-spits, 
snapping  up  the  choicest  of  the  snails.  And 
such  bullfrogs  !  I  have  not  heard  their  like 
since,  when  a  boy,  living  on  the  verge  of  a 
New  England  pond,  I  imagined  their  hollow 
rumble  of  a  roundelay  to  bear  the  burden  of 
"  Paddy,  go  'round!  Go  'round  and  'round  !  " 
This  in  accordance  with  a  local  tradition 
which  says  that  Paddy,  coming  home  one 
night  o'erfull  of  the  "  craithur,"  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  pond,  which  stopped  his  progress. 
The  friendly  frogs,  who  themselves  enjoy  a 
soaking,  advised  him  to  go  around  the  ob- 
struction ;  and  as  the  wild  refrain  kept  on, 
Paddy  did  indeed  "go  'round,  and  'round  "  till 
morning  and  his  better-half  found  him,  a  foot- 


158  Historic  Waterways. 

sore  and  a  soberer  man.  They  tell  us  that 
on  the  Fox  River  the  frogs  say,  "  Judge 
Arndt  !  Arndt !  Judge  Arndt!"  Old  Judge 
Arndt  was  one  of  the  celebrities  in  the  early 
day  at  Green  Bay  ;  he  was  a  fur-trader,  and 
accustomed,  with  his  gang  of  voyagenrs,  to 
navigate  the  Fox  and  Wisconsin  with  heavily 
laden  canoes  and  Mackinaw  boats.  A  French- 
man, he  had  a  gastronomic  affection  for  frogs' 
legs,  and  many  a  branch  of  the  house  of  Rana 
was  cast  into  mourning  in  the  neighborhood 
of  his  nightly  camps.  The  story  goes,  there- 
fore, that  unto  this  time  whenever  a  boat  is 
seen  upon  the  river,  sentinel  frogs  give  out 
the  signal  cry  of  "  Judge  Arndt!"  by  way  of 
deadly  warning  to  their  kind.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  valley  of  the  upper  Fox,  by  day  or 
by  night,  is  resonant  with  the  bellow  of  the 
amphibious  bull.  It  is  not  always  "Judge 
Arndt ! "  but  occasionally,  as  if  miles  and 
miles  away,  one  hears  a  sudden  twanging 
note,  like  that  of  the  finger-snapped  bass 
string  of  a  violin ;  whereas  the  customary 
refrain  may  be  likened  to  the  deep  reverbera- 
tions of  the  bass-viol.  Add  the  countless 
chatter  and  whistle  of  the  birds,  the  ear- 
piercing  hum  of  the  cicada,  and  the  muffled 
chimes  from  scores  of  sheep  and  cow  bells 
on  the  hillside  pastures,  and  we  have  an 


SmitJis  Island.  159 

orchestral  accompaniment  upon  our  voyage 
that  could  be  fully  appreciated  only  in  a 
Chinese  theatre. 

In  the  pockets  and  the  sloughs,  we  find 
thousands  of  yellow  and  white  water-lilies, 
and  sometimes  progress  is  impeded  by  masses 
of  creeping  root-stalks  which  have  been  torn 
from  their  muddy  bed  by  the  upheaval  of  the 
ice,  and  now  float  about  in  great  rafts,  firmly 
anchored  by  the  few  whose  extremities  are 
still  imbedded  in  the  ooze. 

Fishing-boats  were  also  occasionally  met 
with  this  morning,  occupied  by  Packvvaukee 
people  ;  for  in  the  widespreads  just  above  this 
village,  the  pickerel  thrives  mightily  off  the 
swarms  of  perch  who  love  these  reedy  seas; 
and  the  weighty  sturgeon  often  swallows  a 
hook  and  gives  his  captor  many  a  frenzied 
tug  before  he  consents  to  enter  the  "live-box" 
which  floats  behind  each  craft. 


SECOND   LETTER. 

FROM   PACKWAUKEE   TO   BERLIN. 

BERLIN,  Wis.,  June  8,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  W :  Packwaukee  is  twenty- 
five  miles  by  river  below  Portage,  and 
at  the  head  of  Buffalo  Lake.  It  is  a  tumble- 
down little  place,  with  about  one  hundred 
inhabitants,  half  of  whom  appeared  to  be 
engaged  in  fishing.  A  branch  of  the  Wis- 
consin Central  Railway,  running  south  from 
Stevens  Point  to  Portage,  passes  through 
the  town,  with  a  spur  track  running  along  the 
north  shore  of  the  lake  to  Montello,  seven 
miles  east.  Regular  trains  stop  at  Pack- 
waukee, while  the  engine  draws  a  pony  train 
out  to  Montello  to  pick  up  the  custom  of 
that  thriving  village.  Packwaukee  apparently 
had  great  pretensions  once,  with  her  battle- 
ment-fronts and  verandaed  inn ;  but  that  day 
has  long  passed,  and  a  picturesque  float-bridge, 
mossy  and  decayed,  remains  the  sole  point  of 


From  Packwaukee  to  Berlin.     161 

artistic  interest.  A  dozen  boys  were  angling 
from  its  battered  hand-rail,  as  we  painfully 
crept  with  our  craft  through  a  small  tunnel 
where  the  abutment  had  been  washed  out  by 
the  stream.  We  emerged  covered  with  cob- 
webs and  sawdust,  to  be  met  by  boys  eagerly 
soliciting  us  to  purchase  their  fish.  The 
Doctor,  somewhat  annoyed  by  their  perti- 
nacity as  he  vigorously  dusted  himself  with 
his  handkerchief,  declared,  in  the  vernacular 
of  the  river,  that  we  were  "  clean  busted  ; "  and 
I  have  no  doubt  the  lads  believed  his  mild 
fib,  for  we  looked  just  then  as  though  we  had 
seen  hard  times  in  our  day. 

Our  general  course  had  hitherto  been  north- 
ward, but  was  now  eastward  for  a  few  miles  and 
afterward  southeastward  as  far  as  Marquette. 
Buffalo  Lake  is  seven  miles  long  by  from  a 
third  to  three  quarters  of  a  mile  broad.  The 
banks  are  for  the  most  part  sandy,  and  from 
five  to  fifty  feet  high.  The  river  here  merely 
fills  its  bed ;  being  deeper,  the  wild  rice  and 
reeds  do  not  grow  upon  its  skirts.  Were  there 
a  half-dozen  more  feet  of  water,  the  Fox 
would  be  a  chain  of  lakes  from  Portage  to 
Oshkosh.  As  it  is,  we  have  Buffalo,  Puck- 
awa,  and  Grand  Butte  des  Morts,  which  are 
among  the  prettiest  of  the  inland  seas  of  Wis- 
consin. The  knolls  about  Buffalo  Lake  are 
ii 


1 62  Historic  Waterways. 

pleasant,  round-topped  elevations,  for  the  most 
part  wooded,  and  between  them  are  little 
prairies,  generally  sandy,  but  occasionally 
covered  with  dark  loam. 

The  day  had,  by  noon,  developed  into  one 
of  the  hottest  of  the  season.  The  run  down 
Buffalo  Lake  was  a  torrid  experience  long  to  be 
remembered.  The  air  was  motionless,  the 
sky  without  clouds  ;  we  had  good  need  of  our 
awning.  The  Doctor,  who  is  always  experi- 
menting, picked  up  a  flat  stone  on  the  beach, 
so  warm  as  to  burn  his  fingers,  and  tried  to 
fry  an  egg  upon  it  by  simple  solar  heat,  but 
the  venture  failed  and  a  burning-glass  was 
needed  to  complete  the  operation. 

Montello  occupies  a  position  at  the  foot  of 
the  lake,  commanding  the  entire  sheet  of  water. 
The  knoll  upon  which  the  village  is  for  the 
most  part  built  is  nearly  one  hundred  feet 
high,  and  the  simple  spire  of  an  old  white 
church  pitched  upon  the  summit  is  a  landmark 
readily  discernible  in  Packwaukee,  seven  miles 
distant.  There  is  a  government  lock  at  Mon- 
tello, and  a  small  water-power.  A  levee  pro- 
tects from  overflow  a  portion  of  the  town  which 
is  situated  somewhat  below  the  lake  level. 
The  government  pays  the  lock-keepers  thirty 
dollars  per  month  for  about  eight  months  in 
the  year,  and  house-rent  the  year  round. 


From  Packwaukee  to  Berlin.     163 

Tollage  is  no  longer  required,  and  the  keep- 
ers are  obliged  by  the  regulations  of  the  engi- 
neering department  to  open  the  gates  for  all 
comers,  even  a  saw-log.  But  the  services  of 
the  keepers  are  so  seldom  required  in  these 
days  that  we  find  they  are  not  to  be  easily 
roused  from  their  slumbers,  and  it  is  easier 
and  quicker  to  make  the  portage  at  the  aver- 
age up-river  lock.  Our  carry  at  Montello  was 
two  and  a  half  rods,  over  a  sandy  bank,  where 
a  solitary  small  boy,  who  had  been  catching 
crayfish  with  a  dip-net,  carefully  examined 
our  outfit  and  propounded  the  inquiry,  "  Be 
you  fellers  on  the  guv'ment  job?" 

Below  the  lock  for  three  or  four  miles,  the 
river  is  again  a  mere  canal,  but  the  rigid  banks 
of  dredge-trash  are  for  the  most  part  covered 
with  a  thrifty  vegetation,  and  have  assumed 
charms  of  their  own.  This  stage  passed,  and 
the  river  resumes  a  natural  appearance, — a 
placid  stream,  with  now  and  then  a  slough,  or 
perhaps  banks  of  peat  and  sand,  ten  feet  high 
and  fairly  well  hung  with  trees  and  shrubs. 

As  we  approach  the  head  of  Lake  Puckawa, 
the  widespreads  broaden,  with  rows  of  hills 
two  or  three  miles  back,  on  either  side,  —  the 
river  mowing  a  narrow  swath  through  the 
expanse  of  reeds  and  flags  and  rice  which 
unites  their  bases.  Where  the  widespread 


164  Historic  Waterways. 

becomes  a  pond,  and  the  lake  commences, 
there  is  a  sandbar,  the  dregs  of  the  upper 
channel.  A  government  dredge-machine  was 
at  work,  cutting  out  a  water-way  through  the 
obstruction,  —  or,  rather,  had  been  at  work, 
for  it  was  seven  o'clock  by  this  time,  the  men 
had  finished  their  supper,  and  were  enjoying 
themselves  upon  the  neat  deck  of  the  board- 
ing-house barge,  in  a  neighboring  bayou, 
smoking  their  pipes  and  reading  newspapers. 
It  was  a  comfortable  picture. 

A  stern-wheel  freight  steamer,  big  and  cum- 
bersome, came  slowly  into  the  mouth  of  the 
channel  as  we  left  it,  bound  up,  for  Montello. 
As  we  glided  along  her  side,  a  safe  distance 
from  the  great  wheelbarrow  paddle,  she 
loomed  above  us,  dark  and  awesome,  like  a 
whale  overlooking  a  minnow.  It  was  the  "  T. 
S.  Chittenden,"  wood-laden.  The  "  Chitten- 
den  "  and  the  "  Ellen  Hardy  "  are  the  only  boats 
navigating  the  upper  Fox  this  season,  above 
Berlin.  Their  trips  are  supposed  to  be  semi- 
weekly,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  dodge 
around,  all  the  way  from  Winneconne  to 
Montello,  picking  up  what  freight  they  can 
and  making  a  through  trip  perhaps  once  a 
week.  It  is  poor  picking,  I  am  told,  and  the 
profits  but  barely  pay  for  maintaining  the 
service. 


From  Packwaukee  to  Berlin.     165 

There  now  being  no  place  to  land,  without 
the  great  labor  of  poling  the  canoe  through  the 
dense  reed  swamp  to  the  sides,  we  had  sup- 
per on  board,  —  the  Doctor  deftly  spreading  a 
bit  of  canvas  on  the  bottom  between  us,  for 
a  cloth,  and  attractively  displaying  our  lunch 
to  the  best  advantage.  I  leisurely  paddled 
meanwhile,  occasionally  resting  to  take  a 
mouthful  or  to  sip  of  the  lemonade,  in  the 
preparation  of  which  the  Doctor  is  such  an 
adept.  And  thus  we  drifted  down  Lake  Puck- 
awa,  amid  the  delightful  sunset  glow  and  the 
long  twilight  which  followed, — the  Doctor, 
cake  in  one  hand  and  a  glass  of  lemonade  in 
the  other,  becoming  quite  animated  in  a  de- 
tailed description  of  a  patient  he  had  seen  in 
a  Vienna  hospital,  whose  food  was  introduced 
through  a  slit  in  his  throat.  The  Doctor  is 
an  enthusiast  in  his  profession,  and  would  stop 
to  advise  St.  Peter,  at  the  gate,  to  try  his 
method  for  treating  locksmith-palsy. 

We  noticed  a  great  number  of  black  terns 
as  we  progressed,  perched  upon  snags  at  the 
head  of  the  lake.  They  are  fearless  birds, 
and  would  allow  us  to  drift  within  paddle's 
length  before  they  would  rise  and,  slowly 
wheeling  around  our  heads,  settle  again  upon 
their  roosts,  as  soon  as  we  had  passed  on. 

Lake  Puckawa  is  eight  miles  long  by  per- 


1 66  Historic   Waterways. 

haps  two  miles  wide,  running  west  and  east. 
Five  miles  down  the  eastern  shore,  the  quaint 
little  village  of  Marquette  is  situated  on  a 
pleasant  slope  which  overlooks  the  lake  from 
end  to  end.  Marquette  is  on  the  site  of  an 
Indian  fur-trading  camp,  this  lake  being  for 
many  years  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Winne- 
bagoes.  There  are  about  three  hundred  in- 
habitants there,  and  it  is  something  of  a 
mystery  as  to  how  they  all  scratch  a  living ; 
for  the  town  is  dying,  if  not  already  dead,  — 
about  the  only  bit  of  life  noticeable  there 
being  a  rather  pretty  club-house  owned  by  a 
party  of  Chicago  gentlemen,  who  come  to 
Lake  Puckawa  twice  a  year  to  shoot  ducks, 
it  being  one  of  the  best  sporting  grounds  in 
the  State.  That  is  to  say,  they  have  hereto- 
fore come  twice  a  year,  but  the  villagers  were 
bewailing  the  passage  by  the  legislature,  last 
winter,  of  a  bill  prohibiting  spring  shooting, 
thus  cutting  off  the  business  of  Marquette  by 
one  half.  Marquette,  like  so  many  other 
dead  river-towns,  appears  to  have  been  at  one 
time  a  community  of  some  importance. 
There  are  two  deserted  saw-mills  and  two  or 
three  abandoned  warehouses,  all  boarded  up 
and  falling  into  decay,  while  nearly  every 
store-building  in  the  place  has  shutters  nailed 
over  the  windows,  and  a  once  substantial  side- 


From  Packwaukee  to  Berlin.     167 

walk  has  become  such  a  rotten  snare  that  the 
natives  use  the  grass-grown  street  for  a  foot- 
path. The  good  people  are  so  tenacious  of 
the  rights  of  visiting  sportsmen  that  there  is 
no  angling,  I  was  told,  except  by  visitors,  and 
we  inquired  in  vain  for  fish  at  the  dilapidated 
little  hotel  where  we  slept  and  breakfasted. 
At  the  hostlery  we  were  welcomed  with 
open  arms,  and  the  landlady's  boy,  who  offi- 
ciated as  clerk,  porter,  and  chambermaid, 
assured  us  that  the  village  schoolmaster  had 
been  the  only  guest  for  six  weeks  past. 

It  is  certainly  a  quiet  spot.  The  Doctor, 
who  knows  all  about  these  things,  diagnosed 
the  lake  and  declared  it  to  be  a  fine  field  for 
fly-fishing.  He  had  waxed  so  enthusiastic 
over  the  numbers  of  nesting  ducks  which  we 
disturbed  as  we  came  down  through  the  reeds, 
in  the  early  evening,  that  I  had  all  I  could  do 
to  keep  him  from  breaking  the  new  game  law, 
although  he  stoutly  declared  that  revolvers 
did  n't  count.  The  postmaster  —  a  pleasant 
old  gentleman  in  spectacles,  who  also  keeps 
the  drug  store,  deals  in  ammunition,  groceries, 
and  shoes,  and  is  an  agent  for  agricultural 
machinery  —  got  very  friendly  with  the  Doc- 
tor, and  confided  to  him  the  fact  that  if  the 
latter  would  come  next  fall  to  Markesan,  ten 
miles  distant,  over  the  sands,  and  telephone 


1 68  Historic  Waterways. 

up  that  he  was  there,  a  team  would  be  sent 
down  for  him  ;  then,  with  the  postmaster  for 
a  guide,  fish  and  fowl  would  soon  be  obliged 
to  seek  cover.  It  is  needless  to  add  that 
the  Doctor  struck  a  bargain  with  the  post- 
master and  promised  to  be  on  hand  without 
fail.  I  never  saw  our  good  friend  so  wild 
with  delight,  and  the  postmaster  became  as 
happy  as  if  he  had  just  concluded  a  cash 
contract  for  a  car-load  of  ammunition. 

The  schoolmaster,  a  very  accommodating 
young  man,  helped  us  down  to  the  beach  this 
morning  with  our  load.  Anticipating  numer- 
ous lakes  and  widespreads,  where  we  might 
gain  advantage  of  the  wind,  we  had  brought 
a  sprit  sail  along,  together  with  a  temporary 
keel.  The  sail  helped  us  frequently  yester- 
day, especially  in  Buffalo  Lake,  but  the  wind 
had  died  down  after  we  passed  Montello.  This 
morning,  however,  there  was  a  good  breeze 
again,  but  quartering,  and  the  keel  became 
essential.  This  we  now  attached  to  our  craft, 
and  it  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  before  we  were 
off,  although  we  had  had  breakfast  at  5.30. 

The  "  Ellen  Hardy  "  was  at  the  dock,  load- 
ing with  wheat  for  Princeton.  She  is  a 
trimmer,  faster  craft  than  the  "  Chittenden." 
The  engineer  told  us  that  the  present  stage 
of  water  was  but  two  and  a  half  feet  in  the 


From  Packwaukee  to  Berlin.     169 

upper  Fox,  this  year  and  last  being  the  driest 
on  record.  He  informed  us  that  the  freight 
business  was  "having  the  spots  knocked  off  it " 
by  the  railroads,  and  there  was  hardly  enough 
to  make  it  worth  while  getting  up  steam. 

Three  miles  down  is  the  mouth  of  the  lake. 
There  being  two  outlets  around  a  large  marsh, 
we  were  somewhat  confused  in  trying  to  find 
the  proper  channel.  We  ascertained,  after 
going  a  mile  and  a  half  out  of  our  way  to 
the  south,  that  the  northern  extremity  of  the 
marsh  is  the  one  to  steer  for.  The  river  con- 
tinues to  wind  along  between  marshy  shores, 
although  occasionally  hugging  a  high  bank  of 
red  clay  or  skirting  a  knoll  of  shifting  sand  ; 
now  and  then  these  knolls  rise  to  the  dignity 
of  hills,  red  with  sorrel  and  sparsely  covered 
with  scrubby  pines  and  oaks. 

It  was  noon  when  we  reached  the  lock 
above  Princeton.  The  lock-keeper,  a  remark- 
ably round-shouldered  German,  is  a  pleasant, 
gossipy  fellow,  fond  of  his  long  pipe  and  his 
very  fat  frau.  Upon  invitation,  we  made  our- 
selves quite  at  home  in  the  lock-house,  a  pleas- 
ant little  brick  structure  in  a  plot  of  made 
land,  the  entire  establishment  having  that 
rather  stiffly  neat,  ship-shape  appearance  pe- 
culiar to  life-saving  stations,  navy-yards,  and 
military  barracks.  The  good  frau  steeped  for 


170  Historic  Waterways. 

us  a  pot  of  tea,  and  in  other  ways  helped  us 
to  grace  our  dinner,  which  we  spread  on  a 
bench  under  a  grape  arbor,  by  the  side  of  the 
yawning  stone  basin  of  the  lock. 

The  "Ellen  Hardy,"  which  had  left  Marquette 
nearly  an  hour  later  than  we,  came  along 
while  we  were  at  dinner,  waking  the  echoes 
with  three  prolonged  steam  groans.  We  took 
advantage  of  the  circumstance  to  lock  through 
in  her  company.  This  was  our  first  experi- 
ence of  the  sort,  so  we  were  naturally  rather 
timid  as  we  brushed  her  great  paddle,  going 
in,  and  stole  along  under  her  overhanging 
deck,  for  she  quite  filled  the  lock.  The  cap- 
tain kindly  allowed  the  liliputian  to  glide 
through  in  advance  of  his  steamer,  however, 
when  the  gates  were  once  more  opened,  and 
we  felt,  as  we  shot  out,  as  though  we  had 
emerged  from  under  the  belly  of  a  monster. 

Beaching  again,  below  the  lock,  we  returned 
to  finish  our  dinner.  The  keeper  asked  for  a 
ride  to  Princeton  village,  three  miles  below, 
and  we  admitted  him  to  our  circle,  —  pipe, 
market-basket  and  all,  though  it  caused  the 
canoe  to  sink  uncomfortably  near  to  the  gun- 
wale. Going  down,  our  voluble  friend  talked 
very  freely  about  his  affairs.  He  said  that 
his  pay  of  $30  per  month  ran  from  about  the 
middle  of  April  to  the  first  of  December,  and 


From  Packwaukcc  to  Berlin.     1 7 1 

averaged  him,  the  year  round,  about  $20  and 
house-rent.  He  had  but  little  to  do,  and  got 
along  very  comfortably  on  the  twenty-five 
acres  of  marsh-land  which  the  government 
owned,  by  raising  pigs  and  cows,  a  few  vege- 
tables, and  hay  enough  for  his  stock.  He  ad- 
mitted that  this  was  "a  heap  better"  than  he 
could  do  in  the  fatherland. 

"  I  shoost  dell  you,  mine  frient,"  he  said  to 
me,  as  he  grinned  and  refilled  his  pipe,  "dot 
Shermany  vos  a  nice  guntry,  and  Bismarck 
he  vos  a  grade  feller,  und  I  vos  brout  I  vos  a 
Sherman  ;  but  I  dells  mine  vooman  vot  I  dells 
you,  —  I  mooch  rahder  read  aboud  'em  in  mine 
Sherman  newsbaper,  dan  vot  I  voot  leef  dere 
myself,  already.  I  roon  avay  vrom  dem  con- 
scrip'  fellers,  und  I  shoost  never  seed  de  time 
vot  I  voot  go  back  again.  In  dot  ol'  guntry, 
I  vos  nuttings  boot  a  beasant  feller  ;  unt  in 
dis  guntry  I  vos  a  goov'ment  off'cer,  vich 
makes  grade  diffrence,  already." 

He  chuckled  a  good  deal  to  himself  when 
asked  what  he  thought  about  the  Fox-Wis- 
consin river-improvement,  but  finally  said  that 
government  must  spend  its  surplus  some  way, 
—  if  not  in  this,  it  would  in  another,  —  and 
he  could  not  object  to  a  scheme  which  gave 
him  his  bread  and  butter.  He  said  that  the 
improvement  operations  scattered  a  good  deal 


172  Historic  Waterways. 

of  money  throughout  the  valley,  for  labor  and 
supplies,  but  expressed  his  doubts  as  to  the 
ultimate  national  value  of  the  work,  unless  the 
shifting  Wisconsin  River,  thus  far  unnavigable 
for  steamers,  should  be  canalled  from  the  por- 
tage to  its  mouth.  He  is  an  honest  fellow, 
and  appears  to  utilize  his  abundance  of  leisure 
in  reading  the  newspapers. 

At  Princeton  village,  —  a  thriving  country 
town  on  a  steep  bank,  with  unkempt  back- 
yards running  down  to  and  defiling  the  river, 
—  we  again  came  across  the  "Ellen  Hardy." 
She  was  unloading  her  light  cargo  of  wheat 
as  we  arrived,  and  left  Princeton  an  eighth  of 
a  mile  behind  us.  We  now  had  a  pleasant 
little  race  to  White  River  lock,  seven  miles  be- 
low. With  sail  set,  and  paddles  to  help,  we 
led  her  easily  as  far  as  the  lock.  But  we 
thought  to  gain  time  by  portaging  over  the 
dam,  and  she  gained  a  lead  of  at  least  a  mile, 
although  we  frequently  caught  sight  of  her 
towering  white  hull  across  the  widespreads, 
by  dint  of  standing  on  the  thwarts  and  peering 
over  the  tall  walls  of  wild  rice  which  shut  us 
in  as  closely  as  though  we  had  been  canoeing 
in  a  railroad  cut. 

It  had  been  fair  and  cloudy  by  turns  to-day, 
but  delightfully  cool,  —  a  wonderful  improve- 
ment on  yesterday,  when  we  fairly  sweltered, 


From  Packwaukee  to  Berlin.     173 

coming  down  Buffalo  Lake.  In  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon,  below  White  River,  a  thunder- 
storm overtook  us  in  a  widespread  several 
miles  in  extent.  Seeking  a  willow  island 
which  abutted  on  the  channel,  we  made  a  tent 
of  the  sail  and  stood  the  brief  storm  quite 
comfortably.  We  then  pushed  on,  and, 
rubber-coated,  weathered  the  few  clearing 
showers  in  the  boat,  for  we  were  anxious  to 
reach  Berlin  by  evening. 

At  Berlin  lock,  twelve  miles  below  White 
River,  we  portaged  the  dam,  and,  getting  into 
a  two-mile  current,  ate  our  supper  on  board. 
The  river  now  begins  to  have  firmer  banks, 
and  to  approach  the  ridges  upon  the  southern 
rim  of  its  basin. 

We  reached  Berlin  in  the  twilight,  the  land- 
scape of  hill  and  meadow  being  softened  in 
the  golden  glow.  The  better  portion  of  this 
beautiful  little  city  of  forty-five  hundred  in- 
habitants is  situated  on  a  ridge,  closely  skirted 
by  the  river,  with  the  poorer  quarters  on  the 
flats  spreading  away  on  either  side.  There 
are  many  charming  homes  and  the  main 
business  street  has  an  air  of  active  prosperity. 

We  went  into  dock  alongside  of  the  "  Ellen 
Hardy." 


THIRD   LETTER. 

THE   MASCOUTINS. 

OSHKOSH,  Wis.,  June  9,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  W :  As  we  passed  out  of 
Berlin  this  morning,  a  government 
dredger  was  at  work  by  the  river-side.  We 
paused  on  our  paddles  for  some  time,  to  watch 
the  workings  of  the  ingenious  mechanism. 
There  was  something  demoniac  in  the  action 
of  the  monster,  as  it  craned  its  jointed  neck 
amid  a  quick  chorus  of  jerky  puffs  from  the 
engine  and  an  accompaniment  of  rattling 
chains.  Reaching  far  out  over  the  bubbling 
water,  it  would  open  its  great  iron  jaws  with 
a  savage  clank  and,  pausing  a  moment  to 
gather  its  energies,  dive  swiftly  into  the  roily 
depth  ;  after  swaying  to  and  fro  as  if  strug- 
gling with  its  prey,  it  soon  reappeared,  bearing 
in  its  filthy  maw  a  ton  or  two  of  blue-black 
ooze,  the  water  escaping  through  its  teeth  in 


The  Mascoutins.  175 

a  score  of  hissing  torrents  ;  then,  turning  aside 
to  the  heap  of  dredge-trash,  suddenly  vomited 
forth  the  foul-smelling  mess,  and  returned  for 
another  charge.  It  was  a  singularly  fascinat- 
ing sight,  though  wofully  uncanny. 

From  Berlin  down  to  Omro,  pleasant  prairie 
slopes  come  down  at  intervals  to  the  water's 
edge,  on  the  south  bank  ;  the  feature  of  the 
north  side  being  wide  expanses  of  bog,  the 
home  of  the  cranberry,  for  which  this  region 
is  famous.  The  best  marshes,  however,  are 
the  pockets,  back  among  the  ridges  ;  from 
these,  great  drainage-ditches,  with  flooding 
gates,  come  furrowing  through  the  peat,  in 
dark  lines  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  empty 
into  the  river.  It  was  somewhere  about  here, 
nearer  Berlin  than  Omro,  —  but  exactly  where, 
no  man  now  knoweth,  —  that  the  ancient 
Indian  "  nation "  of  the  Mascoutins  was  lo- 
cated over  two  centuries  ago  ;  their  neighbors, 
if  not  their  village  comrades,  being  the  Miamis 
and  the  Kickapoos.  Champlain,  the  intrepid 
founder  of  Quebec,  had  heard  of  their  warring 
disposition  as  early  as  1615.  In  1634  Jean 
Nicolet,  the  first  white  man  known  to  have  set 
foot  upon  territory  now  included  in  the  State  of 
Wisconsin,  came  in  a  bark  canoe  as  far  up  the 
Fox  River  as  the  Mascoutins,  and  after  stop- 
ping a  time  with  them,  journeyed  southward 


176  Historic  Waterways. 

to  the  country  of  the  Illinois.1  Allouez  and 
his  companions  also  came  hither  in  1670,  and 
the  good  father,  in  the  official  report  of  his  ad- 
venturous canoeing  trip,  says  the  fort  of  these 
people  was  located  a  French  league  (2.4  Eng- 
lish miles)  "  over  beautiful  prairies  "  to  the 
south  of  the  river.  Joliet  and  Marquette,  on 
their  way  to  discover  the  Mississippi  River, 
arrived  at  the  fort  of  the  Mascoutins  on  June  7, 
1673,  and  the  latter  gives  this  graceful  sketch 
of  the  oak  openings  hereabouts,  which  have 
not  meanwhile  perceptibly  changed  their  char- 
acteristics :  "  I  felt  no  little  pleasure  in  be- 
holding the  position  of  this  town  ;  the  view 
is  beautiful  and  very  picturesque,  for  from  the 
eminence  on  which  it  is  perched,  the  eye  dis- 
covers on  every  side  prairies  spreading  away 
beyond  its  reach,  interspersed  with  thickets 
or  groves  of  lofty  trees." 

The  Mascoutins  are  now  a  lost  tribe.  As 
the  result  of  warring  habits,  they  in  turn  were 
crowded  to  the  wall,  and  a  generation  after 
Marquette's  visit  the  banks  of  their  river  knew 
them  no  more ;  the  Foxes,  from  whom  the 
stream  ultimately  took  its  name,  were  then 
predominant,  and  long  continued  the  masters 
of  the  highway. 

1  Butterfield's  "Discovery   of  the  Northwest"  (Cincin- 
nati, 1861). 


The  Mascoutins.  177 

Sacramento  —  "as  dead  as  a  door-nail, 
sir "  —  lies  sprawled  out  over  a  pleasant 
riverside  slope  to  the  south.  There  is  the 
customary  air  of  fallen  grandeur  at  Sacra- 
mento, —  big  hopes  gone  to  decay  ;  battle- 
ment-fronts, houseless  cellars,  a  universal 
lack  of  paint.  The  railroads,  the  real  high- 
ways of  our  present  civilization,  have  killed 
these  little  river  towns  that  are  away  from 
the  track,  and  they  will  never  be  resurrected. 
The  day  of  inland  water  navigation,  except 
for  canoeists,  is  nearing  its  close.  Settle- 
ment clings  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  rails, 
and  generally  avoids  rivers  as  an  obstruction 
to  free  transit.  The  towns  that  have  to  be 
reached  by  a  country  ferry  are  rotting,  —  they 
are  off  the  line  of  progress.  Sacramento 
boasts  a  spouting  well  by  the  river-bank,  a 
mammoth  village  ash-leach,  and  fond  memo- 
ries of  the  day  when  it  was  "  a  bigger  town 
than  Berlin."  As  we  stood  in  the  spray  of 
the  fountain,  filling  our  canteen  with  the 
purest  and  coldest  of  water,  I  speculated  upon 
the  strong  probability  of  Sacramento  being  on 
the  identical  bank  where  the  Jesuits  beached 
their  canoes  to  walk  across  country  to  the 
old  Indian  village.  And  the  Doctor,  apt  to 
be  irreverent  as  to  aboriginal  lore,  suggested 
that  the  defunct  Sacramento  should  have 
12 


178  Historic  Waterways. 

written  over  its  gate  this  motto :  "  Gone  to 
join  the  Mascoutins  !  " 

Eureka,  a  few  miles  farther  down,  is  also 
paintless,  and  her  river-front  is  artistic  with 
the  crumbling  ruins  of  two  or  three  long- 
deserted  saw-mills.  A  new  Eureka  appears, 
however,  to  be  slowly  building  up,  to  one 
side  of  the  dead  little  hamlet,  —  for  there  are 
smart  steam  flouring-mill  and  a  model  little 
cheese-factory  in  full  swing  here.  The  cheese 
man,  an  accommodating  young  fellow  who  ap- 
peared quite  up  to  the  times,  and  is  a  direct 
shipper  to  the  London  market,  took  a  just 
pride  in  showing  us  over  his  establishment, 
and  stocked  our  mess-box  with  samples  of  his 
best  brands. 

Omro  spreads  over  a  sandy  plain,  upon 
both  sides  of  the  river,  —  an  excellent  wagon- 
bridge  crossing  the  stream  near  that  of  the 
Chicago,  Milwaukee,  and  St.  Paul  railway. 
Omro,  which  is  the  headquarters  of  the 
Wisconsin  Spiritualists,  who  have  quite  a 
settlement  hereabouts,  is  growing  somewhat, 
after  a  long  period  of  stagnation,  having  at 
present  a  population  of  fifteen  hundred. 

The  "  Ellen  Hardy,"  which  had  now  caught 
up  with  us,  after  chasing  the  canoe  from 
Berlin  down,  went  through  the  draw  in  our 
company.  As  the  crew  rolled  off  a  small 


The  Mascoutins.  179 

consignment  of  freight,  the  captain  —  a  raw- 
boned,  red-faced,  and  thoroughly  good-humored 
man  —  leaned  out  of  the  pilot-house  window 
and  pleasantly  chaffed  us  about  our  lowly 
conveyance.  The  conversation  ended  by  his 
offering  to  give  us  a  "  lift "  through  the  great 
Winneconne  widespread,  to  the  point  where 
the  Wolf  joins  the  Fox,  nine  or  ten  miles 
below.  The  "  Ellen  "  was  bound  for  Winne- 
conne and  other  points  up  the  Wolf,  so  could 
help  us  no  farther.  Of  course  we  accepted 
the  kindly  offer,  and  fastening  our  painter  to  a 
belaying-pin  on  the  "  Ellen's  "  port,  scrambled 
up  to  the  freight-deck  just  as  the  pilot-bell 
rang  "  Forward  !  "  in  the  smoky  little  engine- 
room  far  aft. 

While  I  went  aloft  to  enjoy  the  bird's-eye 
view  obtainable  from  the  pilot-house,  the 
Doctor  discussed  fishing  with  the  engineer, 
whom  he  found  on  closer  acquaintance  to  be 
a  rare,  though  much-begrimed  philosopher. 
This  engineer  is  a  wizened-up  little  man, 
with  a  face  like  a  prematurely  dried  apple, 
but  his  eyes  gleam  with  a  kindly  light,  and 
he  is  an  inveterate  angler.  We  had  noticed 
him  at  every  stopping  stage,  —  his  head, 
shoulders,  and  arms  reaching  out  of  the  ab- 
breviated rear  window  of  his  caboose,  —  dang- 
ling a  line  astern.  The  Doctor  learned  that 


I  So  Historic  Waterways. 

this  was  his  invariable  habit.  He  kept 
the  cook's  galley  in  fish,  and  utilized  each 
leisure  half-hour  in  the  pursuit  of  his  favorite 
amusement.  The  engineer,  good  man,  had 
fished,  he  said,  in  nearly  every  known  sea, 
and  the  Doctor  declared  that  he  "  could  many 
a  wondrous  fish-tale  unfold."  In  fact,  the 
Doctor  declared  him  to  be  the  most  interest- 
ing character  he  had  ever  met  with,  outside 
of  a  hospital,  and  said  he  should  surely  report 
to  his  favorite  medical  journal  this  remarkable 
case  of  abnormal  persistency  in  an  art,  amid 
the  most  discouraging  physical  surroundings. 
He  thought  the  man's  brain  should  be  dis- 
sected, in  the  cause  of  science. 

The  Wolf,  which  has  its  rise  150  miles 
nor'-nor'west  of  Green  Bay,  in  a  Forest-county 
lakelet,  and  takes  generous,  south-trending 
curves  away  down  to  Lake  Poygan,  is  prop- 
erly the  noble  stream  which  pours  into  Lake 
Winnebago  from  the  northwest,  and  then, 
with  a  mighty  rush,  forces  its  way  northeast- 
ward to  the  Great  Lakes,  along  the  base  of 
the  watershed  which  parallels  the  western 
coast  of  Lake  Michigan  and  terminates  in  the 
sands  of  the  Sturgeon-Bay  country.  The 
Jesuit  fathers,  in  seeking  the  Mississippi, 
traced  this  river  above  Lake  Winnebago,  and 
on  reaching  the  great  widespread  at  the  head 


The  Mascoutins.  1 8 1 

of  the  Grand  Butte  des  Morts,  where  the 
tributary  flowing  from  the  southwest  empties 
its  lazy  flood  into  the  rushing  Fox,  pursued 
that  tributary  to  the  portage  and  erroneously 
called  their  highway  by  one  name,  from  Green 
Bay  to  the  carry.  Thus  the  long-unexplored 
main  river,  above  the  junction,  came  to  be 
treated  on  the  maps  as  a  tributary,  and  to  be 
dubbed  the  Wolf.  This  geographical  mis- 
take has  been  so  long  persisted  in  that  cor- 
rection becomes  impracticable,  and  we  must 
continue  to  style  the  branch  the  trunk. 

This  has  been  a  delightful  day ;  the  heav- 
ens were  clear  and  blue,  and  a  gentle  north- 
easter fanned  our  faces  in  the  pilot-house, 
from  which  vantage-point,  nearly  thirty  feet 
above  the  river-level,  there  was  obtainable  a 
bird's-eye*  view  well  worthy  of  canvas.  The 
wild-rice  bog,  through  which  the  Fox,  here 
not  over  thirty  yards  wide,  twists  like  the 
snapper  of  a  whip,  is  from  ten  to  fifteen  miles 
wide,  —  a  sea  of  living  green,  across  which 
the  breeze  sends  a  regular  succession  of 
waves,  losing  themselves  upon  the  far-distant 
shores.  Upon  the  northwestern  horizon,  the 
Wolf  comes  stealing  down  at  the  base  of  a 
range  of  wooded  hills.  To  the  west,  a  flash- 
ing line  tells  where  Lake  Poygan  "  holds  her 
mirror  to  the  sun."  The  tall  smoke-stacks  of 


1 82  Historic  Waterways. 

the  Winneconne  saw-mills  occupy  the  mid- 
dle ground  westward.  To  the  east,  in  the 
centre  of  the  picture,  one  catches  glimpses  of 
the  consolidated  stream,  as  its  goodly  flood 
quickly  glides  southeasterly,  on  a  short  spurt 
toward  the  Grand  Butte  des  Morts,  at  the 
head  of  which  is  the  old  fur-trading  village 
of  the  same  name.  Far  southeastward,  be- 
low the  lake,  there  is  just  discernible  the 
great  brick  chimney  of  a  mammoth  planing- 
mill,  —  an  Algoma  landmark, — and  just  be- 
hind that  the  black  cloud  resting  above  the 
Oshkosh  factories.  It  is  a  broad,  bounteous 
sweep  of  level  landscape,  —  monotonous,  of 
course,  but  imposing  from  mere  immensity. 

At  the  union  of  the  rivers  we  bade  farewell 
to  our  friend  the  captain ;  and  the  Doctor 
secured  a  promise  from  the  engineer  to  send 
in  his  photograph  to  the  hospital  with  which 
the  former  is  connected.  The  "  Ellen  Hardy  " 
stopped  her  engine  as  we  cast  off.  In  an- 
other minute,  the  great  stern- wheel  began  to 
splash  again,  and  we  were  bobbing  up  and 
down  on  the  bubbly  swell,  waving  farewell 
to  our  fellow-travelers  and  turning  our  prow 
to  the  southeast,  while  the  roving  "  Ellen " 
shaped  her  course  to  Winneconne,  where  a 
lot  of  laths,  destined  for  Princeton,  awaited 
her  arrival. 


The  Mascoutins.  183 

The  low  ridge  which  forms  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  Wolf,  down  to  the  junction,  soon 
slopes  off  to  the  northeast,  in  the  direction 
of  Appleton,  leaving  a  broad,  level  plain,  of 
great  fertility,  between  it  and  Lakes  Grand 
Butte  des  Morts  and  Winnebago.  On  this 
plain  are  built  the  cities  of  Oshkosh,  Neenah, 
and  Menasha.  Across  it,  the  northeaster, 
freshening  to  a  lively  breeze,  had  full  sweep, 
and  stirred  up  the  Grand  Butte  des  Morts 
into  a  wild  display  of  opposition  to  our  prog- 
ress. Serried  ranks  of  white-caps  came 
sweeping  across  the  lake,  beating  on  our  port 
bow,  and  the  little  sail,  almost  bursting  with 
fulness,  careened  the  canoe  to  the  gunwale, 
as  it  swept  gayly  along  through  the  foam. 
The  paddles  were  necessary  to  keep  her  well 
abreast  of  the  tide,  and  there  was  exercise 
enough  in  the  operation  to  prevent  drowsi- 
ness. The  spray  flew  like  a  drizzling  summer 
shower,  but  our  baggage  and  stores  were  well 
covered  down,  and  the  weather  was  too  warm 
for  a  body  dampener  to  be  uncomfortable. 

We  passed  the  dark,  gloomy,  tumbled- 
down,  but  picturesque  village  of  Butte  des 
Morts,  just  before  entering  the  lake.  Of  the 
twenty-five  or  so  houses  in  the  place,  all  but 
two  or  three  are  guiltless  of  paint.  There  is 
a  quaintness  about  the  simple  architecture, 


184  Historic  Waterways. 

which  gives  Butte  des  Morts  a  distinctive  ap- 
pearance. To  the  initiated,  it  betokens  the 
remains  of  an  old  fur-trading  post  ;  and  this 
was  the  genesis  of  Butte  des  Morts.  It  was 
in  1818  that  Augustin  Grignon  and  James 
Porlier,  men  intimately  connected  with  the 
history  of  the  French-Indian  fur-trade  in 
Wisconsin,  set  up  their  shanty  dwellings  and 
warehouses  on  a  little  lakeside  knoll  a  mile  be- 
low the  present  village,  which  was  founded  by 
their  voyageurs  on  the  site  of  an  old  Menom- 
onee  town  and  cemetery.  Some  of  these 
post-buildings,  together  with  the  remains  of 
the  watch-tower,  from  which  the  traders  ob- 
tained long  advance  notice  of  the  approach 
of  travelers,  red  or  white,  are  still  standing. 
As  we  sped  by,  I  pointed  out  to  the  Doctor 
the  location  of  these  venerable  relics,  which 
I  had,  with  proper  enthusiasm,  carefully  in- 
spected fully  a  dozen  summers  before,  and  he 
suggested  that  the  knowledge  of  the  approach 
of  a  possible  customer,  by  means  of  the  tower, 
gave  the  traders  an  excellent  opportunity  to 
mark  up  the  goods. 

James  Porlier's  son  and  successor,  Louis 
B.  Porlier,  now  an  aged  man,  is  the  present 
occupant  of  the  establishment,  which  is  one 
of  the  oldest  landmarks  in  Wisconsin ;  and 
there,  also,  died  the  famous  Augustin  Grignon, 


The  Mascoutins.  185 

historian  of  his  clan.  Butte  des  Morts,  in 
the  early  day  of  the  northwest,  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  trading-post.  Situated 
near  the  union  of  the  upper  Fox  and  the 
Wolf,  it  was  the  rallying-point  for  both  val- 
leys,—  long  before  Appleton,  Neenah,  Men- 
asha  or  Oshkosh  were  known,  or  any  of  the 
towns  on  the  upper  Fox.  It  was  the  only 
white  man's  stopping-place  between  the  port- 
age and  Kaukauna.  The  mail  trail  between 
Green  Bay  and  the  portage  crossed  here,  — 
for  strange  to  say,  the  great  south-stretching 
widespread,  which  lies  like  a  map  before  the 
village,  was  in  those  days  firm  enough  for  a 
horse  to  traverse  with  safety  ;  while  to-day  a 
boat  can  be  pushed  anywhere  between  the 
rushes  and  rice,  and  it  is  par  excellence  the 
great  breeding-ground  of  this  section  for 
muskrats  and  water-fowl.  A  scow-ferry  was 
maintained  in  pioneer  times  for  the  benefit  of 
the  mail-carrier  and  other  travelers.  Butte 
dcs  Morts  is  mentioned  in  most  of  the  jour- 
nals left  us  by  travelers  over  the  Fox- Wis- 
consin watercourse,  previous  to  1835,  and 
here  several  important  Indian  treaties  were 
consummated  by  government  commissioners. 
It  is  somewhat  over  fifteen  miles  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Wolf  to  Oshkosh.  The  run 
down  the  lake  seemed  unusually  protracted, 


1 86  Historic  Waterways. 

for  the  city  was  clearly  in  sight  the  entire 
way,  and  the  distance,  over  the  flat  expanse, 
was  deceptive.  Algoma,  now  a  portion  of 
Oshkosh,  was  something  of  a  settlement  long 
before  the  lower  town  began  to  grow.  But 
the  latter  finally  overtook  and  swallowed  the 
original  hamlet.  Algoma  is  now  chiefly  de- 
voted to  the  homes  of  the  employees  in  the 
great  planing  and  saw-milling  establishments 
of  Philetus  Sawyer,  Wisconsin's  senior  United 
States  senator,  and  the  wealthy  Paine  Brothers. 
The  residences  of  these  lumber  kings  are  on 
a  slope  to  the  north  of  the  iron  wagon-bridge, 
under  which  we  swept  as  the  booming  whis- 
tles of  the  busy  locality,  in  unison  with  a  noisy 
chorus  of  steam-gongs  farther  down  the  river, 
sounded  the  hour  of  six.  Through  the  gant- 
let of  the  mills,  with  their  outlying  rafts,  their 
lines  of  piling,  and  their  great  yards  of  newly 
sawn  lumber,  we  sped  quickly  on.  A  half- 
hour  later,  we  were  turning  up  into  a  peaceful 
little  dock  alongside  the  south  approach  to 
the  St.  Paul  railway-bridge,  the  canoe's  quar- 
ters for  the  night.  The  sun  was  just  plunging 
below  the  clear-cut  prairie  horizon,  as  we 
walked  across  the  fields  to  the  home  of  our 
expectant  friends. 


FOURTH    LETTER. 

THE   LAND    OF    THE   WINNEBAGOES. 

APPLETON,  Wis.,  June  10,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  W :  We  had  a  late  start 
to-day  from  Oshkosh.     It  was  half- 
past  nine  o'clock  by  the  time  we  had  reloaded 
our  traps,  pushed  off  from  the  railway  em- 
bankment,  and   received    the   God-speed   of 

M ,  who  had  come  down  to  see  us  off. 

The  busy  town,  with  its  twenty-two  thousand 
thrifty  people,  was  all  astir.  The  factories 
and  the  mills  were  resonant  with  the  clang 
and  rattle  of  industry,  and  across  the  two 
wagon-bridges  of  the  city  proper  there  were 
continual  streams  of  traffic. 

I  suppose  that  Oshkosh  is,  in  its  way,  as 
widely  known  throughout  this  country  as  al- 
most any  city  in  it.  The  name  is  strikingly 
outlandish,  being  equaled  only  by  Kalamazoo, 
and  furnishes  the  butt  of  many  a  newspaper 
joke  and  comic  rhyme.  Old  chief  Oshkosh, 


1 88  Historic  Waterways. 

whose  cognomen  signifies  "  brave "  in  Me- 
nomonee  speech,  was  the  head  man  of  his 
dusky  tribe,  a  half-century  ago.  He  was  a 
doughty,  wrinkled  hero,  o'er  fond  of  fire-water, 
and  wore  a  battered  silk  hat  for  a  crown. 
About  1840,  when  the  settlement  here  was 
four  years  old,  the  Government  offered  to 
establish  a  post-office  if  the  inhabitants  would 
unite  on  a  name  for  the  place.  The  whites 
favored  Athens,  but  the  Indians,  half-breeds, 
and  traders  round  about  Butte  des  Morts, 
wanted  their  friend  Oshkosh  immortalized,  so 
they  came  down  to  the  new  settlement  in 
force,  and  the  election  being  a  free-for-all, 
carried  the  day.  It  is  said  that  the  Grignons 
were  so  anxious  in  behalf  of  the  Menomonee 
sachem  that  they  had  a  number  of  squaws 
array  themselves  in  trousers  and  cast  ballots 
like  the  bucks.  And  it  was  fortunate,  as 
events  proved,  that  the  election  turned  out 
as  it  did,  for  the  oddity  of  the  name  has 
been  a  permanent  advertisement  for  a  very 
bright  community.  Oshkosh,  as  hackneyed 
"Athens,"  would  have  been  lost  to  fame. 
Nobody  would  think  of  going  to  "Athens"  to 
"  have  fun  with  the  boys." 

The  morning  air  was  as  clear  as  a  bell,  — a 
pleasant  northeast  zephyr,  coming  in  off  the 
body  of  the  lake,  slightly  ruffling  the  surface 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.     189 

and  reducing  the  temperature  to  a  delightful 
tone.  The  wind  not  being  fair,  the  sail  was  use- 
less, so  we  paddled  along  through  the  broad 
river,  into  the  lake  and  northward  past  a  fisher- 
men's colony,  rows  of  great  ice-houses,  the 
water-works  park,  and  beautiful  lake-shore 
residences,  to  Garlic  Island.  It  was  half-past 
twelve,  P.  M.,  when  we  tied  up  at  the  crazy 
pier  which  projects  from  this  islet  of  the 
loud-smelling  vegetable.  A  half-century  ago 
Garlic  Island  was  the  home  of  lowatuk,  the 
beautiful  aboriginal  relict  of  a  French  fur- 
trader, —  an  Indian  princess,  the  old  settlers 
called  her ;  at  all  events,  she  is  reputed  to 
have  been  a  most  exemplary  person,  well- 
possessed  of  this  world's  goods,  as  well  as  a 
large  family  of  half-breed  children.  The 
island  is  charmingly  situated,  a  half-mile  or 
more  out  from  the  main  land,  opposite  the 
Northern  Insane  Hospital ;  it  is  a  forest  of 
ancient  elrns,  surrounded  by  a  bowlder-strewn 
beach  of  some  three  quarters  of  a  mile  in 
length,  and  occupied  by  a  summer-hotel  es- 
tablishment. The  name  "  Garlic  Island  "  does 
not  sound  very  well  for  a  fashionable  resort, 
so  the  insular  territory  has  been  dubbed 
"  Island  Park  "  of  late  ;  but  "Garlic"  has  good 
staying  qualities,  and  I  doubt  if  they  can  ever 
efface  the  objectionable  pioneer  title. 


i  go  Historic  Waterways. 

We  had  our  dinner  on  the  sward  near  the 
pier,  convenient  to  a  pump,  and  were  enter- 
tained by  watching  the  approach  of  a  little 
steam-launch,  loaded  with  a  party  of  "  resort- 
ers"  who  had  doubtless  been  shopping  in 
Oshkosh,  the  smoke  from  whose  chimneys 
rose  above  the  tree-tops,  five  miles  to  the 
southwest.  There  were  some  of  the  usual 
types,  —  the  languid  Southern  woman,  with 
her  two  pouting  boys  in  charge  of  a  rather 
savage-looking  colored  nurse,  who  dragged 
the  little  fellows  out  over  the  gang-plank,  one 
in  each  hand,  as  though  they  had  been  bags 
of  flour ;  a  fashionable  dame,  from  some 
northern  metropolis,  all  ribbons  and  furbe- 
lows, starch  and  whalebones,  accompanied  by 
her  willowy  daughter  of  twenty,  almost  her 
counterpart  as  to  dress,  with  a  pert  young 
miss  of  fourteen,  in  abbreviated  gown  and 
overgrown  hat,  bringing  up  the  rear  with  the 
family  pug  ;  a  dawdling  young  Anglo-maniac 
sucked  the  handle  of  his  cane  and  looked 
sweetly  on  the  society  girl,  whose  papa,  ap- 
parently a  tired-out  broker,  in  a  well  made 
business  costume  and  a  wretched  straw  hat, 
stayed  behind  to  treat  the  skipper  to  a  prime 
cigar  and  arrange  for  a  fishing  excursion. 

There  is  a  fine  view  from  the  island.  The 
hills  and  cliffs  of  Calumet  County,  a  dozen 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.     191 

miles  to  the  east,  are  dimly  visible.  Toward 
Fond  du  Lac,  on  the  south,  the  horizon  is  the 
lake.  South-southwestward,  Black  Wolf  Point 
runs  out,  just  over  the  verge,  and  the  tops  of 
the  tall  trees  upon  it  peep  up  into  view,  like 
shadowy  pile-work.  Westward  are  the  well- 
kept  hospital  grounds,  fringed  with  stately 
elms  overhanging  the  firm,  gravelly  beach, 
studded  with  ice-heaved  bowlders,  which  ex- 
tends northward  to  Neenah.  The  view  to 
the  north  and  northeast  is  delightfully  hazy, 
being  now  dark  with  delicate  fringes  of  forest 
which  cap  the  occasional  limestone  promon- 
tories, and  again  losing  itself  in  a  watery 
sky-line. 

We  had  two  pleasant  hours  at  this  island- 
home  of  the  lovely  lowatuk,  walking  around 
it  on  the  bowldered  beach,  and  reveling  in 
the  shade  of  the  grand  old  elms.  By  the  time 
we  were  ready  to  resume  our  voyage,  the 
wind  had  died  down,  the  lake  was  as  smooth 
as  a  marble  slab,  and  the  sun's  rays  reflected 
from  it  converted  the  atmosphere  to  the  tem- 
perature of  a  bake-oven.  No  sooner  had  we 
pushed  out  beyond  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
trees  than  it  seemed  as  though  we  had  at  one 
paddle-stroke  shot  into  the  waters  of  a  tropic 
sea.  The  awning  was  at  once  raised,  and 
served  to  somewhat  mitigate  our  sufferings, 


192  Historic  Waterways. 

but  the  dazzling  reflection  was  there  still,  to 
the  great  discomfort  of  our  eyes. 

After  two  miles  of  distress,  a  bank  of  light 
but  sharply  broken  clouds  appeared  on  the 
northeastern  horizon,  and  soon  a  gentle  breeze 
brought  blessed  relief.  In  a  few  minutes 
more,  ripples  danced  upon  our  starboard  quar- 
ter, and  then  the  awning  had  to  come  down, 
for  it  filled  like  a  fixed  sail  and  counteracted 
the  effect  of  the  paddles.  The  Doctor,  who, 
you  know  full  well,  never  paddles  when  he 
can  sail,  insisted  on  running  up  into  the  wind 
and  spreading  the  canvas.  He  was  just  in 
time,  for  a  squall  struck  us  as  he  was  adjust- 
ing the  boom  sprit,  and  nearly  sent  him  over- 
board while  attempting  to  regain  his  seat. 
Little  black  squalls  now  rapidly  succeeded 
each  other,  the  wind  freshening  between  the 
gusts  ;  and  the  Doctor,  who  was  the  sailing- 
master,  had  to  exercise  rare  vigilance,  for  the 
breeze  was  rapidly  developing  into  a  young 
gale,  and  the  ripples  had  now  grown  to  be  by 
far  the  largest  waves  our  little  craft  had  yet 
encountered.  The  situation  began  to  be 
somewhat  serious,  as  the  clouds  thickened 
and  the  white-caps  broke  upon  the  west  beach 
with  a  sullen  roar.  We  therefore  deemed  it 
advisable  to  run  into  a  little  harbor  to  the  lee 
of  a  wooded  spit,  and  hold  council. 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.     193 

It  was  a  wild,  storm-tossed  headland,  two 
thirds  of  the  distance  down  from  the  island, 
and  the  spit  was  but  one  of  its  many  points. 
We  landed  and  made  an  extended  exploration, 
deeming  it  possible  that  we  might  be  obliged 
to  pass  the  night  here ;  but  the  result  of  our 
discoveries  was  to  discourage  any  such  pro- 
ject. For  a  half-mile  back  or  more  the  forest 
proved  to  be  a  tangled  swamp,  filled  with 
fallen  timber  and  sink-holes,  while  quick- 
sands lined  the  harbor  where  the  canoe 
peacefully  rested  behind  an  outlying  fringe  of 
gnarled  elms.  We  wandered  up  and  down  the 
gravelly  beach,  in  the  spray  of  the  breakers, 
scrambling  over  great  bowlders  and  overhang- 
ing trunks  whose  foundations  had  been  sapped 
by  storm-driven  floods  ;  but  everywhere  was 
the  same  hard,  forbidding  scene  of  desolation, 
with  the  angry  surface  of  the  lake  and  the 
canopy  of  wind-clouds  filling  out  a  picture 
which,  the  Doctor  suggested,  could  have  only 
been  satisfactorily  executed  in  water-colors. 

In  the  course  of  our  wanderings,  which 
were  sadly  destructive  to  clothes  and  shoe- 
leather,  we  had  some  comical  adventures. 
The  Doctor  hasn't  got  over  laughing  about 
one  of  them  yet.  We  came  to  an  apparently 
shallow  lagoon,  perhaps  three  rods  wide  and  a 
dozen  long,  beyond  which  we  desired  to  pene- 
13 


194  Historic  Waterways. 

trate.  It  was  bedded  with  sand  and  covered 
with  green  slime.  The  Doctor  had,  just  be- 
fore, divested  himself  of  shoes  and  stockings 
and  rolled  his  trousers  above  his  knees,  in  an 
enthusiastic  hunt  for  a  particularly  ponderous 
frog,  which  he  desired  to  pickle  in  the  cause 
of  science.  He  playfully  offered  to  carry  me 
across  the  pool  on  his  back,  and  thus  save  me 
the  trouble  of  imitating  his  style  of  undress. 
With  some  misgivings  as  to  the  result,  I 
finally  mounted.  We  progressed  favorably 
as  far  as  the  centre,  when  suddenly  I  felt  my 
transport  sinking  ;  he  gave  a  desperate  lunge 
as  the  water  suddenly  reached  his  waist,  I 
sprang  forward  over  his  head,  and  losing  my 
balance,  sprawled  out  flat  upon  the  slimy 
water.  I  hardly  know  how  we  reached  firm 
ground  again,  but  when  we  did,  we  were  a 
sorry-looking  pair,  as  you  can  well  imagine. 
The  Doctor  thought  it  high  sport,  as  he 
wrung  out  his  clothes  and  spread  them  upon  a 
bowlder  to  dry,  and  I  tried  hard  to  join  in  his 
boisterous  hilarity  ;  but  somehow,  as  I  scraped 
the  gluey  slime  from  my  only  canoeing  suit, 
with  a  bit  of  old  drift  shingle,  and  contempla- 
ted the  soppy  condition  of  my  wardrobe,  I 
know  there  must  have  been  a  tinge  of  sad- 
ness in  my  gaze.  It  was  too  much  like  being 
shipwrecked  on  a  desert  island 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.     195 

As  we  sat,  clad  in  rubber  coats,  sunning 
ourselves  on  the  lee  side  of  a  fallen  tree  and 
waiting  for  our  garments  to  again  become 
wearable,  the  Doctor  read  to  me  an  article 
from  his  medical  journal,  describing  a  novel 
surgical  operation  on  somebody's  splintered 
backbone,  copiously  illustrating  the  selection 
with  vivid  reports  of  his  own  hospital  obser- 
vations in  that  direction.  This  sort  of  thing 
was  well  calculated  to  send  the  shivers  down 
one's  spinal  column,  but  the  Doctor  certainly 
made  the  theme  quite  interesting  and  the 
half-hour  necessary  to  the  drying  process 
soon  passed. 

By  this  time  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
the  velocity  of  the  wind  was  not  going  to 
increase  before  sundown,  although  it  had  not 
slacked.  We  determined  to  try  the  sea  again, 
and  pushed  out  through  the  breakers,  with 
sail  close-hauled  and  baggage  canvased. 
Taking  a  bold  offing  into  the  teeth  of  the 
gale,  we  ran  out  well  into  the  lower  lake,  and 
then,  on  a  port  tack,  had  a  fine  run  down  to 
Doty's  Island,  which  divides  the  lower  Fox 
into  two  channels.  The  city  of  Neenah,  noted 
for  its  flouring  and  paper  mills,  is  built  upon 
both  sides  of  the  southern  channel,  or  Neenah 
River;  Menasha,  with  several  factories,  but 
apparently  less  prosperous  than  the  other, 


196  Historic  Waterways. 

guards  the  north  channel,  —  the  twin  cities 
dividing  the  island  between  them.  The  gov- 
ernment lock  is  at  Menasha,  while  at  Neenah 
there  is  a  fine  water-power,  with  a  fall  of 
twelve  or  fifteen  feet,  —  the  "Winnebago 
Rapids  "  of  olden  time. 

It  was  into  Neenah  channel  that  we  came 
flying  so  gayly,  before  the  wind.  There  is  a 
fine  park  on  the  mainland  shore,  with  a  smartly 
painted  summer  hotel  and  half  a  dozen  pretty 
cottages  that  would  do  credit  to  a  seaside  re- 
sort. To  the  right  the  island  is  studded  with 
picturesque  old  elms,  shading  a  closely  cropped 
turf,  upon  which  cattle  peacefully  graze,  while 
here  and  there  among  the  trees  are  old-fash- 
ioned white  cottages,  with  green  blinds,  quite 
after  the  style  of  a  sleepy  New-England  vil- 
lage,—  a  charming  scene  of  semi-rustic  life; 
while  to  seaward  Lake  Winnebago  tosses  and 
rolls,  almost  to  the  horizon. 

Doty's  is  an  historic  landmark.  The  rapids 
here  necessitated  a  portage,  and  from  the 
earliest  times  there  have  been  Indian  villages 
on  the  island,  more  or  less  permanent  in  char- 
acter,—  Menomonee,  Fox,  and  Winnebago  in 
turn.  As  white  traffic  over  the  Fox- Wiscon- 
sin watercourse  grew,  so  grew  the  importance 
of  this  village,  whatever  the  tribe  of  its  in- 
habitants ;  for  the  bucks  found  employment  in 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.   197 

helping  the  empty  boats  over  the  rapids  and 
in  "toting"  the  goods  over  the  portage-trail. 
The  Foxes  overreached  themselves  by  setting 
up  as  toll-gatherers.  It  is  related  —  but  his- 
torians are  somewhat  misty  as  to  the  details 
—  that  in  the  winter  of  1706-7  a  French 
captain,  Marin  by  name,  was  sent  out  by  the 
governor  of  New  France  to  chastise  the  black- 
mailers. At  the  head  of  a  large  party  of 
French  Creoles  and  half-breeds,  he  ascended 
the  lower  Fox  on  snowshoes,  surprising  the 
aborigines  in  their  principal  village,  here  at 
VVinnebago  Rapids,  and  slaughtering  them  by 
the  hundreds.  Afterward,  this  same  Marin 
conducted  a  summer  expedition  against  the 
Foxes.  His  boats  were  filled  with  armed 
men  and  covered  down  with  oilcloth,  as 
traders  were  wont  to  treat  their  goods  en 
voyage,  to  escape  a  wetting.  Only  two  men 
were  visible  in  each  boat,  paddling  and  steer- 
ing. Nearly  fifteen  hundred  dusky  tax- 
gatherers  were  discovered  squatting  on  the 
beach  at  the  foot  of  the  rapids,  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  flotilla.  The  canoes  were 
ranged  along  the  shore.  Upon  a  signal  being 
given,  the  coverings  were  thrown  off  and 
volley  after  volley  of  hot  lead  poured  into 
the  mob  of  unsuspecting  savages,  a  swivel- 
gun  in  Marin's  boat  aiding  in  the  slaughter. 


198  Historic  Waterways. 

Tradition  has  it  that  over  a  thousand  Foxes 
fell  in  that  brutal  assault.  In  1716  another 
captain  of  New  France,  named  De  Louvigny, 
is  reported  to  have  stormed  the  audacious 
Foxes.  They  had  not,  it  seems,  been  exter- 
minated by  previous  massacres,  for  five  hun- 
dred warriors  and  three  thousand  squaws  are 
alleged  to  have  been  collected  within  a  pali- 
saded fort,  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  these  rapids.  De  Louvigny  is  credited 
with  having  captured  the  fort  after  a  three 
days'  siege,  but  granted  the  enemy  the  honors 
of  war.  Twelve  years  later  the  Foxes  had 
again  become  so  troublesome  as  to  need  chas- 
tisement. This  time  the  agent  chosen  to 
command  the  expedition  was  De  Lignery, 
among  whose  lieutenants  was  the  noted 
Charles  de  Langlade,  Wisconsin's  first  white 
settler.  But  the  redskins  had  become  wise, 
after  their  fashion,  and  fled  before  the  French- 
men, who  found  the  villages  on  the  Fox, 
lower  and  upper,  deserted.  The  invaders 
burned  every  wigwam  and  cornfield  in  sight, 
from  Green  Bay  to  the  portage.  This  expedi- 
tion appears  to  have  been  followed  by  others, 
until  the  Foxes,  with  the  allied  Sacs,  fled  the 
valley,  never  to  return.  Much  of  this  is 
traditionary. 

The   widening  of  the    Fox    below    Doty's 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.  1 99 

Island  was  called  Lac  Petit  Butte  des  Morts, 
- "  Lake  Little  Hill  of   the  Dead,"  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  the  "  Great  Hill  of  the  Dead," 
above  Oshkosh. 

It  has  long  been  claimed  that  the  thousands 
of  Foxes  who  at  various  times  fell  victims  to 
these  massacres  in  behalf  of  the  French  fur- 
trade  were  buried  in  great  pits  at  Petit  Butte 
des  Morts,  —  near  Winnebago  Rapids.  But 
modern  investigators  lean  to  the  opinion  that 
the  "  little  hill  of  the  dead  "  was  merely  an 
ordinary  Indian  cemetery,  and  the  mound  or 
mounds  there  are  prehistoric  tumuli,  common 
enough  in  the  neighborhood  of  Wisconsin 
lakes.  A  like  conclusion,  also,  has  been  ar- 
rived at  in  regard  to  the  Grand  Butte  des 
Morts.  However,  this  is  something  that  the 
archaeological  committee  must  settle  among 
themselves. 

The  Winnebagoes  succeeded  the  Foxes, 
and  Doty's  Island  became  the  seat  of  their 
power.  The  master  spirit  among  them  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  previous  to  the  fall  of 
New  France  was  a  French  fur-trader  named 
De  Korra  or  De  Cora,  who  had  a  Winnebago 
"  princess  "  for  a  squaw.  They  had  a  numer- 
ous progeny,  which  De  Korra  left  to  his  wife's 
charge  when  called  to  serve  under  Montcalm 
in  the  defence  of  Quebec.  He  was  killed  in 


2OO  Historic  Waterways. 

a  sortie,  and  Madame  De  Korra  and  her 
brood  relapsed  into  barbarism.  One  half  of 
the  Winnebagoes  now  living  are  descendants, 
more  or  less  direct,  of  this  sturdy  old  fur- 
trader,  and  bear  his  name,  which  is  also  per- 
petuated, with  varied  orthography,  in  many  a 
northwestern  stream  and  hamlet.  During 
the  first  third  of  the  present  century  Hoo- 
Tschope,  or  Four  Legs,  was  the  dusky  mag- 
nate at  this  Winnebago  capital.1  Four  Legs 
was  a  cunning  rascal,  well  known  to  the  earli- 
est pioneers,  but  he  at  last  fell  a  victim  to  his 
greatest  enemy,  the  bottle.  Last  month  I 
was  visiting  among  the  Winnebagoes  around 
Black  River  Falls.  Desiring  to  have  a  "  talk  " 
with  Walking  Cloud,  a  wizened-faced  red- 
skin of  some  seventy-two  years,  I  went  out 
with  my  interpreters  over  the  hills  and 
through  the  valley  of  the  Black,  nearly  a 
dozen  miles,  before  I  found  him  and  his 
squatting  in  their  wigwams  at  the  base  of 
a  bold  bluff,  fronted  by  a  lovely  bit  of  vale. 
Cloud's  decrepit  squaw,  blind  in  one  eye 
and  wofully  garrulous,  hobbled  up  to  us,  and 
sinking  to  her  knees  in  front  of  me,  held  out 
a  dirty,  bony  hand,  with  nails  like  the  claws 
of  a  bird,  murmuring,  "  Give  !  Give  !  "  I 

1  See  Mrs.  Kinzie's  "  Wau-Bun "  for  reminiscences  of 
Four  Legs. 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.  201 

dropped  a  coin  into  the  outstretched  palm  ;  she 
grinned  and  chattered  like  an  animated  skele- 
ton, and  crawled  away  on  her  witch-like 
crutch.  This  was  the  once  far-famed  and 
beautiful  princess  of  the  Winnebagoes,  the 
winsome  Champche  Keriwinke,  or  Flash  of 
Lightning,  eldest  daughter  of  Hoo-Tschope. 
How  are  the  mighty  fallen  ! 

We  portaged  around  the  island  end  of  the 
Neenah  dam  and  met  the  customary  shal- 
lows below  the  obstruction.  But  soon  finding 
a  narrow,  rock-imbedded  channel,  we  glided 
swiftly  down  the  stream,  through  the  thrifty 
town,  past  the  mills  and  under  the  bridges, 
just  as  the  six  o'  clock  bells  had  sounded  and 
the  factory  hands  were  thronging  homeward, 
their  tin  dinner-pails  glistening  in  the  sun. 
Scores  of  them  stopped  to  lean  over  the 
bridge-rails,  and  curiously  watched  us  as  we 
threaded  the  shallows  ;  for  canoes  long  ago 
ceased  to  be  a  daily  spectacle  at  Winnebago 
Rapids. 

Little  Lake  Butte  des  Morts,  just  below, 
is  where  the  river  spreads  to  a  full  mile  in 
breadth,  the  average  width  of  the  stream  being 
less  than  one  half  that.  The  wind  was  fair, 
and  we  came  swooping  down  into  the  lake, 
which  is  two  or  three  miles  long.  A  half- 
hour  before  sunset  we  hauled  up  at  a  high 


2O2  Historic  Waterways, 

mossy  glade  on  the  north  shore,  and  had  de- 
lightful down-stream  glimpses  of  deep  vine- 
clad,  naturally  terraced  banks,  the  slopes  and 
summits  being  generally  well  wooded.  A  party 
of  young  men  and  women  were  having  a  camp 
near  us.  The  woods  echoed  with  their  laugh- 
ing shouts.  A  number,  with  their  chaperone, 
a  lovely  and  lively  old  lady,  in  a  white  cap 
with  satin  ribbons,  came  down  to  the  shore 
to  inspect  our  little  vessel  and  question  us  as 
to  our  unusual  voyage.  We  returned  the  call 
and  played  lawn  tennis  with  fair  partners,  until 
the  fact  that  we  must  reach  Appleton  to-nighl 
suddenly  dawned  upon  us,  and  we  bade  a  hasty 
farewell  to  our  joyous  wayside  friends. 

It  was  a  charming  run  down  to  Appleton, 
between  the  park-like  banks,  which  rise  to  an 
altitude  of  fifty  feet  or  more.  Every  now  and 
then  a  pretty  summer  residence  stands  prom- 
inently out  upon  a  blufif-head,  an  architectural 
gem  in  a  setting  of  oaks  and  luxurious  pines. 
At  their  bases  flows  the  deep  flood  of  the 
Lower  Fox,  black  as  Erebus  in  the  shadows, 
but  smiling  brightly  in  the  patchy  sunlight, 
and  thickly  decked  with  great  bubbles  which 
fairly  leap  along  the  course,  eager  to  reach 
their  far-off  ocean  goal.  But  swifter  by  far 
than  the  bubbles  went  our  canoe  as  we  set 
the  paddles  deeply  and  bent  to  our  work,  for 


The  Land  of  the  Winnebagoes.     203 

the  waters  were  strange  to  us,  the  night  was 
setting  in,  and  Appleton  must  be  made.  It 
will  not  do  to  traverse  these  rivers  after  dark 
unless  well  acquainted  with  the  currents,  the 
snags,  and  the  dams,  for  disaster  may  readily 
overtake  the  unwary. 

Cautiously  we  now  crept  along,  for  in  the 
fast-fading  twilight  we  could  just  discern  the 
outlines  of  the  Appleton  paper-mills  and  a 
labyrinth  of  railway  bridges,  while  the  air 
fairly  trembled  with  the  mingled  roar  of  water 
and  of  mighty  gearing.  Across  the  rapid 
stream  shot  piercing  rays  from  the  windows 
of  the  electric  works,  whose  dynamos  furnish 
light  for  the  town  and  power  for  the  street 
railway.  A  fisherman,  tugging  against  the 
current,  shouted  to  us  to  keep  hard  on  the 
eastern  bank,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  we 
glided  by  the  stone  pier  which  buttresses  the 
upper  dam,  and  pulled  up  in  a  little  dead-water 
cove  at  the  base  of  the  Milwaukee  and  North- 
ern railway  bridge.  The  bridge-tender's 
children  came  down  to  meet  us  ;  the  man 
himself  soon  followed  ;  we  were  permitted  to 
chain  up  for  the  night  at  his  pier,  and  to  de- 
posit our  bulky  baggage  in  his  kitchen  ;  he 
accompanied  us  over  the  long  bridge  which 
spans  the  noisy  apron  and  the  rushing  race. 
A  misstep  between  the  ties  would  send  one 


2O4  Historic  Waterways. 

on  a  short  cut  to  the  hereafter,  but  we  safely 
crossed,  ascended  two  or  three  steep  flights 
of  stairs  to  the  top  of  the  bank,  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  more  were  speeding  up  town 
to  our  hotel,  aboard  an  electric  street  railway 
car. 


FIFTH    LETTER. 

LOCKED   THROUGH. 

LITTLE  KAUKAUNA,  Wis.,  June  n,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  W :  We  took  an  ex- 
tended stroll  around  Appleton  after 
breakfast.  It  is  a  beautiful  city,  —  the  gem 
of  the  Lower  Fox.  The  banks  are  nearly 
one  hundred  feet  high  above  the  river  level. 
They  are  deeply  cut  with  ravines.  Hillside 
torrents,  quickly  formed  by  heavy  rains,  as 
quickly  empty  into  the  stream,  draining  the 
plateau  of  its  superfluous  surface  water,  and 
in  the  operation  carving  these  great  gulches 
through  the  soft  clay.  And  so  there  are 
many  steep  inclines  in  the  Appleton  high- 
ways, and  the  ravines  are  frequently  bridged 
by  dizzy  trestle-works  ;  but  the  greater  part 
of  the  city  is  on  a  high,  level  plain,  the  wealthy 
dwellers  courting  the  summits  of  the  river 
banks,  where  the  valley  view  is  panoramic. 
The  little  Methodist  college,  with  its  high- 


206  Historic  Waterways. 

sounding  title  of  Lawrence  University,  is  an 
excellent  institution,  and  said  to  be  growing ; 
it  gives  a  certain  scholastic  tinge  to  Appleton 
society,  which  might  otherwise  be  given  up  to 
the  worship  of  Mammon,  for  there  is  much 
wealth  among  the  manufacturers  who  rule 
the  city,  and  prosperity  attends  their  reign. 

There  is  a  good  natural  water-power  here, 
but  the  Fox-Wisconsin  improvement  has 
made  it  one  of  the  finest  in  the  world.  If 
the  improvement  scheme  is  a  flat  failure  else- 
where, as  is  beginning  to  be  generally  be- 
lieved, it  certainly  has  been  the  making  of 
this  valley  of  the  Lower  Fox.  From  Lake 
Winnebago  down  to  the  mouth,  the  rapids  are 
frequent,  the  chief  being  at  Neenah,  Apple- 
ton,  Kaukauna,  Little  Kaukauna,  and  Depere. 
Of  the  twenty-six  locks  from  Portage  down, 
seventeen  are  below  our  stopping-point  of 
last  night  ;  the  fall  at  each,  at  this  stage  of 
water  being  about  twelve  feet  on  the  average. 
Each  of  these  locks  involves  a  dam  ;  and 
when  the  stream  is  thus  stemmed  and  all 
repairs  maintained,  at  the  expense  of  the  gen- 
eral government,  it  is  a  simple  matter  to  tap 
the  reservoir,  carry  a  race  along  the  bank,  and 
have  water-power  ad  libitum.  Not  half  the 
water-power  in  sight,  not  a  tenth  of  that  pos- 
sible is  used.  There  is  enough  here,  experts 


Locked  Through.  207 

declare,  to  turn  the  machinery  of  the  world. 
No  wonder  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Lower 
Fox  is  rich,  and  growing  richer. 

It  was  no  holiday  excursion  to  portage 
around  the  Appleton  locks  this  morning.  At 
none  of  them  could  we  find  the  tenders,  for 
the  Menasha  lock  being  broken,  there  is  no 
through  navigation  from  Oshkosh  to  Green 
Bay  this  week,  and  way  traffic  is  slight.  We 
had  neglected  to  furnish  ourselves  with  a  tin 
horn,  and  the  vigorous  use  of  lung  power 
failed  to  achieve  the  desired  result.  The 
banks  being  steep  and  covered  with  rock 
chips  left  by  the  stone-cutters  employed  on 
the  work,  we  had  some  awkward  carries,  and 
felt,  as  we  finally  passed  the  cordon  and  set 
out  on  the  straight  eastward  stretch  for  Kau- 
kauna,  that  we  were  earning  our  daily  bread. 

Kaukauna,  the  Grand  Kackalin  of  the 
Jesuits  and  early  French  traders,  is  ten  miles 
below  Appleton.  Here  are  the  most  formi- 
dable rapids  on  the  river,  the  fall  being  sixty 
feet,  down  an  irregular  series  of  jagged  lime- 
stone stairs  some  half  mile  in  extent.  Indians, 
in  their  light  bark  canoes  and  practically  with- 
out baggage,  can,  in  high  water,  make  the 
passage,  up  or  down,  by  closely  hugging  the 
deeper  and  stiller  water  on  the  north  bank  ; 
but  the  French  traders  invariably  portaged 


2o8  Historic  Waterways. 

their  goods,  allowing  the  voyageurs  to  carry 
over  the  empty  boats,  the  men  walking  in  the 
water  by  the  side,  pushing,  hauling,  and  bal- 
ancing, amid  a  stream  of  oaths  from  their 
bourgeois,  or  master,  who  remained  at  his 
post.  I  had  had  an  idea  that  in  our  little  craft 
we  might  safely  make  the  venture  of  a  shoot 
down  the  stairs,  by  exercising  caution  and 
following  the  Indian  channel.  But  this  was 
previous  to  arrival.  Leaving  the  Doctor  to 
guard  the  canoe  from  a  crowd  of  Kaukauna 
urchins,  who  were  disposed  to  be  over-familiar 
with  our  property,  I  went  down  through  a 
boggy  field  to  view  the  situation.  It  is  a 
grand  sight,  looking  up  from  the  bottom  of 
the  rapids.  The  water  is  low,  and  at  every 
few  rods  masses  of  rock  project  above  the 
seething  flood,  specimens  of  what  line  the 
channel.  The  torrent  comes  down  with  a 
mighty  roar,  lashing  itself  into  a  fury  of  spray 
and  foam  as  it  leaps  around  and  over  the  ob- 
structions, and  takes  great  lunges  from  step  to 
step.  There  are  several  curves  in  the  basin 
of  the  cataract,  which  add  to  its  artistic  effect, 
while  it  is  deeply  fringed  by  stunted  pines 
and  scrub  oaks,  having  but  a  slender  footing 
in  the  shallow  turf  which  covers  the  under- 
lying stratum  of  limestone.  Whatever  may 
be  the  condition  of  the  falls  at  Kaukauna  in 


Locked  Through.  209 

high  water,  it  is  certain  that  at  this  stage  a 
canoe  would  be  dashed  to  splinters  quite  early 
in  the  attempt  to  scale  them. 

But  a  portage  of  half  a  mile  was  not  to  our 
taste  in  the  torrid  temperature  we  have  been 
experiencing  to-day,  and  we  determined  to 
maintain  the  rights  of  free  navigators  by 
obliging  the  tenders  to  put  us  through  the 
five  great  locks,  which  are  here  necessary  to 
lower  vessels  from  the  upper  to  the  lower 
level.  These  tenders  receive  ample  compen- 
sation, and  many  of  them  are  notoriously 
lazy.  It  is  but  seldom  that  they  are  com- 
pelled to  exercise  their  muscles  on  the  gates  ; 
for  navigation  on  the  Fox  is  spasmodic  and 
unimportant.  As  I  have  said  in  one  of  my 
previous  letters,  even  a  saw-log  has  the  right  of 
way ;  and  government  paid  a  goodly  sum  to 
the  speculators  from  whom  it  purchased  this 
improvement,  that  free  tollage  might  be  es- 
tablished here  for  all  time.  And  so  it  was 
that,  perhaps  soured  a  little  by  our  Appleton 
experience,  we  determined  at  last  to  test  the 
matter  and  assert  the  privileges  of  American 
citizens  on  a  national  highway. 

On  regaining  my  messmate,  we  took  a 
general  view  of  Kaukauna,  —  which  spreads 
over  the  banks  and  a  prairie  bottom  on  both 
sides  of  the  river,  and  is  a  growing,  bustling, 


2io  Historic  Waterways. 

freshly  built  little  factory  town,  —  and  then 
re-embarked  to  try  our  fortune  at  the  lock- 
gates.  Heretofore  we  had  considerately  por- 
taged every  one  of  these  obstructions,  except 
at  Princeton,  where  we  went  through  under 
the  "  Ellen  Hardy's  "  wing. 

A  stalwart  Irishman,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and  smoking  a  clay  pipe  with  that  air  of  dog- 
ged indifference  peculiar  to  so  many  govern- 
ment officials,  leaned  over  a  capstan  at  the 
upper  lock,  and  dreamily  stared  at  the  ap- 
proaching canoe.  The  lock  was  full,  the  last 
boat  having  passed  up  a  day  or  two  before. 
The  upper  gates  being  open,  we  pushed  in, 
and  took  up  our  station  in  the  centre  of  the 
basin,  to  avoid  the  "  suck  "  during  the  empty- 
ing process.  The  Doctor  took  out  of  the 
locker  a  copy  of  his  medical  journal  and  I  a 
novel,  and  we  settled  down  as  though  we  had 
come  to  stay.  The  Irishman's  face  was  at 
first  a  picture  of  dumb  astonishment,  and 
then  he  sullenly  picked  up  his  coat  from  the 
grass,  and  began  to  walk  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  town. 

"  Hi,  my  friend  !  "  shouted  the  Doctor,  good- 
naturedly.  "  We  are  waiting  to  get  locked 
through." 

The  tender  returned  a  step,  his  eyes  opened 
wide,  his  brows  knit,  and  in  his  wrath  he 


Locked  Throiigh.  211 

stuttered,  "  Ph-h-a-t !  Locked  through  in 
that  theer  s-s-k-i-ff  ?  Ye  're  cr-razy,  mon  !  " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all.  We  understand  our  rights, 
and  wish  you  to  lock  us  through.  And,  if 
you  please,  we're  in  something  of  a  hurry." 
As  I  said  this  I  consulted  my  watch,  and  after 
returning  it  to  my  pocket  resumed  a  vacant 
gaze  upon  the  outspread  leaves  of  the  novel. 

The  tender — for  we  had  guessed  rightly  ; 
it  was  the  tender  —  advanced  to  the  edge  of 
the  basin,  and  looked  with  inexpressible  scorn 
upon  our  Liliputian  craft.  "  Now,  look  here, 
gints,"  he  said,  somewhat  more  conciliatory, 
"  I  've  been  here  for  twinty  years,  an'  know 
the  law  ;  an'  the  law  don't  admit  no  skiffs,  ye 
mind  y'ur  eye.  An'  the  divil  a  bit  of  lock- 
age will  ye  git  here,  an'  mind  that ! "  And 
then  he  walked  away. 

We  were  very  patient.  The  rim  of  the 
lock  became  lined  with  small  boys  and  smaller 
girls,  for  this  is  Saturday,  and  a  school  holiday  ; 
and  there  was  great  wonderment  at  the  men 
in  the  canoe,  who  "  were  having  a  bloody  old 
row  with  Barney,  the  lock-tinder,"  as  one  boy 
vigorously  expressed  the  situation  to  a  bevy 
of  new-comers.  By  and  by  Barney  returned 
to  see  if  we  were  still  there.  We  were,  and 
were  so  abstracted  that  we  did  not  heed  his 
presence. 


212  Historic  Waterways. 

"  Will,  ye  ain't  gone  yit,  I  see  ? "  said 
Barney. 

The  Doctor  roused  himself,  and  pulling  out 
his  watch,  appeared  to  be  greatly  surprised. 
"  I  do  declare,"  he  ejaculated,  "  if  we  have  n't 
been  waiting  here  nearly  half  an  hour !  I 
say,  my  man,  this  sort  of  delay  is  inexcus- 
able. It  will  read  badly  in  a  report  to  the 
Engineering  Bureau.  What  is  your  number, 
sir  ? "  And  with  a  stern  expression  he  pro- 
duced his  tablets,  prepared  to  jot  down  the 
numeral. 

Barney  was  clearly  weakening.  His  return 
to  see  if  the  "  bluff  "  had  worked  was  an  evi- 
dence of  that.  The  Doctor's  severe  official 
manner,  and  our  quiet  persistence  appeared 
to  convince  Barney  that  he  had  made  a  grave 
mistake.  So  he  hurried  off  to  the  lower 
capstans,  growling  something  about  being 
"  oft'n  fooled  with  fish'n'  parties."  When  we 
were  through  we  left  Barney  a  cigar  on  the 
curbing,  and  gently  admonished  him  never 
again  to  be  so  rude  to  canoeists,  or  some  day 
he  would  get  reported.  As  we  pushed  off  he 
bade  us  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  said  he 
had  sent  his  "  lad  "  ahead  to  see  that  we  had 
no  trouble  at  the  four  lower  locks.  We  did 
not  see  the  lad  ;  but  certain  it  is  that  the  other 
tenders  were  prompt  and  courteous,  and  we 


Locked  Through.  213 

felt  that  the  cigars  which  we  distributed  along 
the  Kaukauna  Canal  were  not  illy  bestowed. 

Progress  was  slow  to-day,  owing  to  the 
delays  in  locking.  Ordinarily,  we  make  from 
thirty  to  forty  miles,  —  on  the  Rock,  you 
remember,  we  averaged  forty.  But  it  was 
nearly  sunset  when  we  passed  under  the  old 
wagon  bridge  at  Wrightstown,  only  seventeen 
miles  below  our  starting-point  of  this  morning. 
We  paused  for  a  minute  or  two,  to  talk  with 
a  peaceably  disposed  lad,  who  was  the  sole  pa- 
tron of  the  bridge  and  lay  sprawled  across  the 
board  foot-walk,  with  his  head  under  the  rail- 
ing, fishing  as  contentedly  as  though  he  lay 
on  a  grassy  bank,  after  the  manner  of  the 
gentle  Izaak.  When  old  Mr.  Wright  was 
around,  Wrightstown  may  have  been  quite 
a  place.  But  it  is  now  going  the  way  of  so 
many  river  towns.  There  is  a  small,  rickety 
saw-mill  in  operation,  to  which  farmers  from 
the  back  country  haul  in  pine  logs,  of  which 
there  are  some  hundreds  neatly  piled  in  an 
adjoining  field.  Another  saw-mill  shell  is 
hard  by,  the  home  of  owls  and  bats,  —  a  de- 
serted skeleton,  whose  spirit,  in  the  shape  of 
machinery,  has  departed  to  Ashland,  a  more 
modern  paradise  of  the  buzz-saw.  The  vil- 
lage, dressed  in  that  tone  of  pearly  gray  with 
which  kind  Nature  decks  those  habitations 


214  Historic  Waterways. 

left  paintless  by  neglectful  man,  —  is  prettily 
situated  on  the  high  banks  which  uniformly 
hedge  in  the  Lower  Fox.  On  the  highest 
knoll  of  all  is  a  modest  little  frame  church 
whose  spire  —  white,  after  a  fashion  —  is  a 
prominent  landmark  to  river  travelers.  There 
are  the  remains  of  once  well-kept  gardens, 
upon  the  upper  terraces  ;  of  somewhat  elab- 
orate fences,  now  swaying  to  and  fro  and  weak 
in  the  knees  ;  of  sidewalks  which  have  become 
pitfalls ;  of  impenetrable  thickets  of  lilacs, 
hedging  lonely  spots  that  once  were  homes. 
On  the  village  street,  only  a  few  idlers  were 
seen,  gathered  in  knots  of  two  or  three  in 
front  of  the  barber  shop  and  the  saloons  ;  the 
smith  at  his  forge  was  working  late,  shoeing 
a  country  team  ;  and  two  angular  dames,  in 
rusty  sun-bonnets,  were  gossiping  over  a  barn- 
yard gate.  That  was  all  we  saw  of  Wrights- 
town,  as  we  drifted  northward  in  company 
with  the  reeling  bubbles,  down  through  the 
deepening  shadow  cast  by  the  western  bank. 

Here  and  there,  where  the  land  chances  to 
slope  gently  to  the  water's  edge,  are  small 
piles  of  logs,  drawn  on  farm  sleds  during  the 
winter  season  from  depleted  pineries,  all  the 
way  from  three  to  ten  miles  back.  When 
wanted  at  the  saw-mills  down  the  river,  or 
just  above,  at  Wrightstown,  they  are  loosely 


Locked  Through.  215 

made  up  into  small  rafts  and  poled  to  market. 
Along  the  stream  there  are  but  few  pines  left, 
and  they  generally  crown  some  rocky  ledge, 
not  easily  accessible.  A  few  small  clumps  are 
preserved,  however,  relics  of  the  forest's  for- 
mer state,  to  adorn  private  grounds  or  enhance 
the  gloomy  tone  of  little  hillside  cemeteries. 
There  must  have  been  an  impressive  grandeur 
about  the  scenery  of  the  Lower  Fox  in  the 
early  day,  before  the  woodman's  axe  leveled 
the  great  pines  which  then  swept  down  in 
solid  rank  to  the  river  beach,  closely  hedging 
in  the  dark  and  rapid  flood. 

We  lunched  upon  a  stone  terrace,  above 
which  swayed  in  the  evening  breeze  the 
dense,  solemn  branches  of  a  giant  native,  one 
of  the  last  of  his  fated  race.  The  channel 
curved  below,  and  the  range  of  vision  was 
short,  between  the  stately  banks,  heavily 
fringed  as  they  are  with  aspen  and  scrub-oak. 
As  we  sat  in  the  gathering  gloom  and  gayly 
chatted  over  the  simple  adventures  which  are 
making  up  this  week  of  ideal  vacation  life, 
there  came  up  from  the  depths  below  the 
steady  swish  and  pant  of  a  river  steamboat, — 
rare  object  upon  our  lonesome  journey.  As 
the  bulky  craft  came  slowly  around  the  bend, 
the  pant  became  a  subdued  roar,  awakening  a 
dull  echo  from  the  wooded  slopes.  A  small 


2i6  Historic  Waterways. 

knot  of  passengers  lolled  around  the  pilot- 
house, on  which  we  were  just  able  to  discern 
the  name  "  Evalyn,  of  Oshkosh,"  in  burnished 
gilt ;  on  the  freight  deck  there  were  bales  and 
boxes  of  merchandise,  and  heaps  of  lumber ; 
two  stokers  were  feeding  cord-wood  to  the 
furnace  flames,  which  lit  the  scene  with  lurid 
glare,  after  the  fashion  of  theatric  fires  ;  the 
roustabouts  were  fastening  night  lanterns  to 
the  rails.  The  V-shaped  wake  of  her  wheel- 
barrow stern  broke  upon  the  shores  like  a 
tidal  wave,  and  the  canoe,  luckily  well  fas- 
tened to  the  roots  of  a  stranded  tree,  bobbed 
up  and  down  as  would  a  chip  tossed  on  the 
billows. 

Four  miles  below  Wrightstown  is  Little 
Kaukauna.  There  are  three  or  four  cottages 
here,  well  up  on  the  pleasant  western  bank, 
overlooking  a  deserted  saw-mill  property ; 
while  just  beyond,  a  government  lock  does 
duty  whenever  needed,  and  the  rest  of  the 
now  broadened  stream  is  stemmed  by  a  mag- 
nificent dam,  from  the  foot  of  which  arises 
a  dense  cloud  of  vapor,  such  is  the  force  of 
the  torrent  which  pours  with  a  mighty  sweep 
over  the  great  chute.  As  we  stole  down 
upon  the  hamlet,  the  moon,  a  day  or  two  past 
full,  was  just  rising  over  the  opposite  hillocks  ; 
a  tall  pine  standing  out  boldly  from  its  lesser 


Locked  Through.  217 

fellows,  was  weirdly  silhouetted  across  her 
beaming  face,  and  in  the  cottage  windows 
lights  gleamed  a  homely  welcome. 

We  were  cordially  received  at  the  house  of 
the  patriarch  of  the  settlement.  We  made 
our  craft  secure  for  the  night,  "  toted  "  our 
baggage  up  the  bank,  and  paused  upon  the 
broad  porch  of  our  new-found  friend  to  con- 
template a  most  charming  moonlit  view  of 
river  and  forest  and  glade  and  cataract ;  the 
cloud  of  mist  rising  high  above  the  roaring 
declivity  seemed  as  an  incense  offering  to 
the  goddess  of  the  night. 


SIXTH    LETTER. 

THE   BAY   SETTLEMENT. 

GREEN  BAY,  Wis.,  June  13,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  W :  We  had  a  quiet  Sun- 
day at  Little  Kaukauna.  Being  a 
delightful  day,  we  went  with  our  entertainers 
to  the  country  church,  a  mile  or  two  back 
across  the  fields,  and  whiled  away  the  rest 
of  the  time  in  strolling  through  the  woods 
and  gossiping  with  the  farmers  about  the 
crops  and  the  government  improvement,  — 
fertile  themes.  It  appears  that  this  diminutive 
hamlet  of  four  or  five  houses  anticipates  a 
"  boom,"  and  there  is  some  feverish  anxiety 
as  to  how  much  village  lots  ought  to  bring  as 
a  "  starter "  when  the  rush  actually  opens- 
A  syndicate  has  purchased  the  long-abandoned 
water-power,  and  it  is  whispered  that  paper- 
mills  are  to  be  erected,  with  cottages  for  oper- 
atives, and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Then,  the 
church  and  the  depot  will  have  to  be  brought 


The  Bay  Settlement.  2 1 9 

into  town  ;  the  proprietor  of  the  cross-roads 
grocery,  now  out  on  the  "  country  road,"  will 
be  erecting  a  brick  "block  "  by  the  river  side  ; 
somebody  will  be  starting  a  daily  paper, 
printed  from  stereotype  plates  imported  from 
Oshkosh  or  Chicago ;  and  a  summer  resort 
hotel  with  a  magnetic  spring,  will  doubtless 
cap  the  climax  of  village  greatness.  I  shall 
look  with  interest  on  reports  from  the  Little 
Kaukauna  boom. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  this  morning  before  we 
dipped  paddle  and  bore  down  to  the  lock 
gates.  The  good-natured  tender  "  dropped  " 
us  through  with  much  alacrity.  The  river 
gradually  widens,  and  here  and  there  the 
high  rolling  banks  recede  for  some  distance, 
and  marshes  and  bayous,  excellent  hunting- 
grounds,  border  the  stream.  A  half  mile 
below  the  lock  we  noticed  a  roughly  built  hut, 
open  at  front,  such  as  would  quarter  a  pig  in 
the  shanty  outskirts  of  a  great  city.  It 
looked  lonesome,  on  the  edge  of  a  wide  bog, 
with  no  other  sign  of  habitation,  either  human 
or  animal,  in  the  watery  landscape.  Curiosity 
impelled  us  to  stop.  Crossing  a  plank,  which 
rested  one  end  on  a  snag  and  the  other  on  a 
stone  in  front  of  the  three-sided  structure,  we 
peered  in.  A  bundle  of  rags  lay  in  one 
corner  of  the  floor  of  loosely  laid  boards  ;  in 


220  Historic  Waterways. 

another  was  a  heap  of  clamshells,  the  contents 
of  which  had  doubtless  been  cooked  over  a 
little  fire  which  still  smouldered  in  a  neigh- 
boring clump  of  reeds.  The  odors  were  noi- 
some, and  a  foot  rise  of  water  would  have 
swamped  out  the  dweller  in  this  strange 
abode.  We  at  once  took  it  for  granted  that 
this  was  either  the  home  of  an  Indian  or  a 
tramp.  Just  as  we  were  leaving,  however, 
a  frowsy,  dirty,  but  apparently  good-tempered 
fisherman  came  rowing  up  and  claimed  the 
cabin  as  his  home.  He  said  that  he  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  year  in  this  filthy  hole, 
hunting  or  fishing  according  to  the  season  ;  in 
the  winter,  he  boarded  up  the  front,  leaving  a 
hole  to  crawl  out  of,  and  banked  the  hut  about 
with  reeds  and  muck.  Wrightstown  was  his 
market ;  and  he  "  managed  to  scratch,"  he 
said,  by  being  economical.  I  asked  him  how 
much  it  cost  him  in  cash  to  exist  in  this 
state,  which  was  but  slightly  removed  from 
the  condition  of  our  ancestral  cave-dwellers. 
He  thought  that  with  twenty-five  dollars  in 
cash,  he  could  "manage  to  scratch  finely" 
for  an  entire  year,  and  have  besides  "  a  week 
off  with  the  boys,"  —  in  other  words,  one  pro- 
longed drinking  bout, — at  Wrightstown. 
He  complained,  however,  that  he  seldom  re- 
ceived money,  being  mainly  put  off  with 


The  Bay  Settlement.  221 

barter.  The  poor  fellow,  evidently  some- 
thing of  a  simpleton,  is  probably  the  vic- 
tim of  sharp  practice  occasionally.  As  we 
paddled  away  from  this  singular  character, 
the  Doctor  said  that  he  had  a  novel-writing 
friend,  given  to  the  sensational,  to  whom  he 
would  like  to  introduce  The  Wild  Fisherman 
of  Little  Kaukauna  ;  he  thought  there  was 
material  for  a  romance  here,  particularly  if  it 
could  be  proved,  as  was  quite  possible,  that 
the  hut  man  was  the  lost  heir  of  a  British 
dukedom. 

But  the  site  of  another  and  a  stranger  ro- 
mance is  but  half  a  mile  farther  down.  The 
river  there  suddenly  broadens  into  a  basin, 
fully  half  a  mile  in  width.  To  the  east, 
the  banks  are  quite  abrupt.  The  westward 
shore  is  a  gentle,  grass-grown  slope,  stretch- 
ing up  beyond  a  charming  little  bay  formed 
by  a  spit  of  meadow.  Near  the  sandy  beach  of 
this  bay  a  country  highway  passes,  winding 
in  and  out  and  up  and  down,  as  it  follows  the 
river  and  the  bases  of  the  knolls.  Above 
this  and  commanding  delightful  glimpses  of 
forest  and  stream  and  bayou  and  prairie,  a 
goodly  hillock  is  crowned,  some  seventy-five 
feet  above  the  water's  edge,  with  a  dark,  un- 
painted,  time-worn,  moss-grown  house,  part 
log  and  part  frame,  set  in  a  deep  tangle  of 


222  Historic  Waterways. 

lilacs  and  crabs.  The  quaint  old  structure  is 
of  the  simple  pioneer  pattern,  —  a  story  and 
a  half,  with  gables  on  the  north  and  south 
ends  of  the  main  part ;  and  a  small  transverse 
wing  to  the  rear,  with  connecting  rooms. 
The  ancient  picket  gate  creaks  on  its  one 
rusty  hinge.  The  front  door  has  the  appear- 
ance of  being  nailed  up,  and  across  its  frame 
a  dozen  fat  spiders,  most  successful  of  fly 
fishers,  have  stretched  their  gluey  nets.  The 
path,  once  leading  thither,  is  now  o'ergrown 
with  grass  and  lilacs,  while  in  the  surrounding 
snarl  of  weeds  and  poplar  suckers  are  seen 
the  blossoming  remnants  of  peonies,  and  a 
few  old-fashioned  garden  shrubs. 

The  ground  is  historic.  The  house  is  an 
ancient  landmark.  It  was  the  old  home  of 
Eleazar  Williams,  in  his  day  Episcopal  mis- 
sionary and  pretender  to  the  throne  of  France. 
Williams  was  the  reputed  son  of  a  mixed  - 
blood  couple  of  the  Mohawk  band  of  Indians  ; 
in  early  life,  he  claimed  to  have  been  born  in 
the  vicinity  of  Montreal,  in  1792.  A  bright 
youth,  he  was  educated  for  the  ministry  of 
the  Protestant  Episcopal  church  and  sent  as  a 
missionary  in  1816-1817  to  the  Oneida  In- 
dians, then  located  in  Oneida  county,  New 
York.  During  the  war  of  1812,  he  had  been 
employed  as  a  spy  by  the  American  authorities 


The  Bay  Settlement.  223 

to  trace  the  movements  of  British  troops  in 
Canada.  Williams,  from  the  first,  became 
engaged  in  intrigues  among  the  New  York 
Indians,  and  was  the  originator  of  the  move- 
ment which  resulted,  in  1822,  in  the  purchase 
by  the  war  department  of  a  large  strip  of 
land  from  the  Menomonees  and  Winneba- 
goes,  along  the  Lower  Fox  River,  and  the 
removal  hither  of  several  of  the  New  York 
bands,  accompanied  by  the  scheming  priest. 
But  the  result  was  jealousy  between  the  new- 
comers and  the  original  tribes,  with  sixteen 
years  of  confusion  and  turmoil,  during  which 
Congress  was  frequently  engaged  in  settling 
the  squabbles  that  arose.  Williams's  original 
idea  was  said,  by  those  who  knew  him  best, 
to  be  the  "total  subjugation  of  the  whole 
[Green  Bay]  country  and  the  establishment 
of  an  Indian  government,  of  which  he  was  to 
be  sole  dictator."  1 

But  his  purpose  failed.  He  came  to  be 
recognized  as  an  unscrupulous  fellow,  and  the 
majority  of  the  whites  and  Indians  on  the 
Lower  Fox,  as  well  as  his  clerical  brethren, 
regarded  him  with  contempt.  In  1853,  Wil- 
liams, baffled  in  every  other  field  of  notoriety 
which  he  had  worked,  suddenly  posed  before 
the  American  public  as  Louis  XVII.,  heredi- 

1  Wis.  Hist.  Colls.,  vol.  ii.  p.  425. 


224  Historic  Waterways. 

tary  sovereign  of  France.  Upon  the  downfall 
of  the  Bourbons  in  1792,  you  will  remember 
that  Louis  XVI.  and  his  queen,  Marie  An- 
toinette, were  beheaded,  while  their  son,  the 
dauphin  Louis,  an  imbecile  child  of  eight, 
was  cast  into  the  temple  tower  by  the  revolu- 
tionists. It  is  officially  recorded  that  after  an 
imprisonment  of  two  years  the  dauphin  died 
in  the  tower  and  was  buried.  But  the  story 
was  started  and  popularly  believed,  that  the 
real  dauphin  had  been  abducted  by  the  royal- 
ists and  another  child  cunningly  substituted 
to  die  there  in  the  dauphin's  place.  The  story 
went  that  the  dauphin  had  been  sent  to 
America  and  all  traces  of  him  lost,  thus  giving 
any  adventurer  of  the  requisite  age  and  suffi- 
ciently obscure  birth,  opportunity  to  seek  such 
honor  as  might  be  gained  in  claiming  identity 
with  the  escaped  prisoner.  Williams  was  too 
young  by  eight  years  to  be  the  dauphin ; 
he  was  clearly  of  Indian  extraction, — a  fair 
type  of  the  half-breed,  in  color,  form,  and 
feature.  But  he  succeeded  in  deceiving  a 
number  of  good  people,  including  several 
leading  doctors  in  his  church ;  while  an  Epis- 
copal clergyman  named  John  H.  Hanson 
attempted,  in  two  articles  in  "  Putnam's  Mag- 
azine," in  1853,  and  afterwards  in  an  elaborate 
book,  "  The  Lost  Prince,"  to  prove  conclu- 


The  Bay  Settlement.  225 

sively  to  the  world  that  Williams  was  indeed 
the  son  of  the  executed  monarch.  While 
those  who  really  knew  Williams  treated  his 
claims  as  fraudulent,  and  his  dusky  father  and 
mother  protested  under  oath  that  Eleazar  was 
their  son,  and  every  allegation  of  Williams,  in 
the  premises,  had  been  often  exposed  as  false, 
there  were  still  many  who  believed  in  him. 
The  excitement  attracted  attention  in  France. 
One  or  two  royalists  came  over  to  see  Wil- 
liams, but  left  disappointed  ;  and  Louis  Phi- 
lippe sent  him  a  present  of  some  finely  bound 
books,  believing  him  to  be  the  innocent  victim 
of  a  delusion.  Williams  died  in  1858,  keeping 
up  his  absurd  pretensions  to  the  last. 

It  was  in  this  house  near  Little  Kaukauna 
that  Williams  lived  for  so  many  years,  man- 
aging and  preaching  to  his  scattered  flock  of 
immigrant  Indians,  and  forever  seeking  some 
sort  of  especially  profitable  employment,  such 
as  accompanying  tribal  delegations  to  Wash- 
ington, or  acting  as  special  commissioner  at 
government  payments.  In  the  earliest  days, 
the  house  was  situated  on  the  spit  of  meadow 
I  have  previously  spoken  of;  but  when  the 
dam  at  Depere  raised  the  water,  the  frame 
was  carried  to  this  higher  position. 

Williams's  wife,  an  octoroon,  whose  portrait 
shows  her  to  have  been  a  thick-set,  stolid  sort 
15 


226  Historic  Waterways. 

of  woman,  died  here,  a  year  ago,  and  is  buried 
hard  by.  The  present  occupants  of  the  house 
are  Mary  Garritty,  an  Indian  woman  of  sixty- 
five  years,  and  her  half-breed  daughter, 
Josephine  Penney,  who  in  turn  has  an  in- 
fant child  of  two.  Mary  was  reared  by  the 
Williamses,  and  told  us  many  a  curious  story 
of  life  at  the  "  agency,"  as  she  called  it,  during 
the  time  when  "Mr.  Williams  and  Ma"  were 
alive.  Josephine,  who  confided  to  me  that 
she  was  thirty  years  old,  was  regularly 
adopted  by  Mrs.  Williams,  for  whose  memory 
both  women  seem  to  have  a  very  strong  re- 
spect. What  little  personal  property  was  left 
by  the  old  woman  goes  to  her  grandchildren, 
intelligent  and  well-educated  Oshkosh  citizens, 
but  Josephine  has  the  sandy  farm  of  sixty- 
five  acres.  She  took  me  into  the  attic  to  ex- 
hibit such  relics  of  the  alleged  dauphin  as 
had  not  been  disposed  of  by  the  administra- 
tor of  the  estate.  There  were  a  hundred  or 
two  mice-eaten  volumes,  mainly  theological 
and  school  text-books  ;  several  old  volumes  of 
sermons,  —  for  Eleazar  is  said  to  have  con- 
sidered it  better  taste  in  him  to  copy  a  dis- 
course from  an  approved  authority  than  to 
endeavor  to  compose  one  that  would  not  sat- 
isfy him  half  as  well ;  a  boxful  of  manuscript 
odds  and  ends,  chiefly  letters,  Indian  glos- 


The  Bay  Settlement.  227 

saries  and  copied  sermons ;  two  or  three 
leather-bound  trunks,  a  copper  tea-kettle  used 
by  him  upon  his  long  boat  journeys,  and  a 
pair  of  antiquated  brass  candlesticks. 

Then  we  descended  to  the  old  orchard. 
Mary  pointed  out  the  spot,  a  rod  or  two  south 
of  the  dwelling,  where  Williams  had  his  library 
and  mission-office  in  a  log-house  that  has 
long  since  been  removed  for  firewood.  In 
this  cabin,  which  had  floor  dimensions  of  fif- 
teen by  twenty  feet,  Williams  met  his  Indian 
friends  and  transacted  business  with  them. 
Mary,  in  her  querulous  tone,  said  that  in  those 
days  the  place  abounded  with  Indians,  night 
and  day,  and  as  they  always  expected  to  be 
fed,  she  had  her  hands  full  attending  to  their 
wants.  "  There  wa'n't  no  peace  at  all,  sir, 
so  long  as  Mr.  Williams  were  here ;  when  he 
were  gone  there  wa'n't  so  many  of  them,  an' 
we  got  a  rest,  which  I  were  mighty  thankful 
for."  Garrulous  Mary,  in  her  moccasins  and 
blanket  skirt,  with  a  complexion  like  brown 
parchment  and  as  wrinkled,  —  almost  a  full- 
blood  herself,  —  has  lived  so  long  apart  from 
her  people  that  she  appears  to  have  forgot- 
ten her  race,  and  inveighed  right  vigorously 
against  the  unthrifty  and  beggarly  habits 
of  the  aborigines.  "I  hate  them  pesky 
Indians,"  she  cried  in  a  burst  of  righteous 


228  Historic  Waterways. 

indignation,  and  then  turned  to  croon  over 
Josephine's  baby,  as  veritable  a  "little 
Indian  boy"  as  I  ever  met  with  in  a  forest 
wigwam.  "He's  a  fine  feller,  isn't  he?" 
she  cried,  as  she  chucked  her  grandson 
under  the  chin  ;  "  some  says  as  he  looks  like 
Mr.  Williams,  sir."  The  Doctor,  who  is  a 
judge  of  babies,  declared,  in  a  professional 
tone  that  did  not  admit  of  contradiction,  that 
the  infant  was,  indeed,  a  fine  specimen  of 
humanity. 

And  thus  we  left  the  two  women  in  a  most 
contented  frame  of   mind,  and  descended  to 
the  beach,  bearing  with  us  Josephine's  part- 
ing salute,  shouted  from  the  garden  gate,  — 
"  Call  agin,  whene'er  ye  pass  this  way  !  " 

Depere  is  five  miles  below.  The  banks 
are  bold  as  far  as  there  ;  but  beyond,  they 
flatten  out  into  gently  sloping  meadows,  va- 
ried here  and  there  by  the  re-approach  of  a 
high  ridge  on  the  eastern  shore,  —  the  west- 
ern getting  to  be  quite  marshy  by  the  time 
Fort  Howard  is  reached. 

At  Depere  are  the  first  rapids  of  the  Fox, 
the  fall  being  about  twelve  feet.  From  the 
earliest  period  recorded  by  the  French 
explorers,  there  was  a  polyglot  Indian  set- 
tlement upon  the  portage-trail,  and  in  De- 
cember, 1669,  the  Jesuit  missionary  Allouez 


The  Bay  Settlement.  229 

established  St.  Francis  Xavier  mission  here, 
the  locality  being  henceforth  styled  "  Rapide 
des  Peres."  It  was  from  this  station  that 
Allouez,  Dablon,  Joliet,  and  Marquette  started 
upon  their  memorable  canoe  voyages  up  the 
Fox,  in  search  of  benighted  heathen  and  the 
Mississippi  River.  For  over  a  century  Rapide 
des  Peres  was  a  prominent  landmark  in  North- 
western history.  The  Depere  of  to-day  is  a 
solid-looking  town,  with  an  iron  furnace,  saw- 
mills, and  other  industries  ;  and  after  a  long 
period  of  stagnation  is  experiencing  a  healthy 
business  revival. 

Unable  to  find  the  tender  at  this  the  last  lock 
on  our  course,  we  portaged  after  the  manner 
of  old-time  canoeists,  and  set  out  upon  the 
home  stretch  of  six  miles.  Green  Bay,  upon 
the  eastern  bank  and  Fort  Howard  upon  the 
western,  were  well  in  view ;  and,  it  being  not 
past  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  cool 
and  somewhat  cloudy  day,  we  allowed  the 
current  to  be  our  chief  propeller,  only  now 
and  then  using  the  paddles  to  keep  our  bark 
well  in  the  main  current. 

The  many  pretty  residences  of  South  Green 
Bay,  including  the  ruins  of  Navarino,  Astor, 
and  Shanty  Town,  are  situated  well  up  on  an 
attractive  sloping  ridge  ;  but  the  land  soon 
drops  to  an  almost  swampy  level,  upon  which 


230  Historic  Waterways. 

the  greater  portion  of  the  business  quarter  is 
built.  Opposite,  Fort  Howard  with  her  mills 
and  coal-docks  skirts  a  wide-spreading  bog, 
much  of  the  flat,  sleepy  old  town  being  built 
on  a  foundation  of  saw-mill  offal.  Histori- 
cally, both  sides  of  the  river  may  be  practically 
treated  as  the  old  "  Bay  Settlement,"  for  two 
and  a  half  centuries  one  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous outposts  of  American  civilization. 
Here  came  savage-trained  Nicolet,  exploring 
agent  of  Champlain,  in  1634,  when  Plymouth 
colony  was  still  in  swaddling-clothes.  It  was 
the  day  when  the  China  Sea  was  supposed 
to  be  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Great  Lakes.  Nicolet  had  heard  that  at  Green 
Bay  he  would  meet  a  strange  people,  who  had 
come  from  beyond  "  a  great  water "  to  the 
west.  He  was  therefore  prepared  to  meet 
here  a  colony  of  Chinamen  or  Japanese,  if 
indeed  Green  Bay  were  not  the  Orient  itself. 
His  mistake  was  a  natural  one.  The  "  strange 
people"  were  Win nebago  Indians.  A  branch 
of  the  Dakotahs,  or  Sioux,  a  distinct  race  from 
the  Algonquin s,  they  forced  themselves  across 
the  Mississippi  River,  up  the  Wisconsin,  and 
down  the  Fox,  to  Green  Bay,  entering  the  Al- 
gonquin territory  like  a  wedge,  and  forever 
after  maintaining  their  foothold  upon  this  in- 
terlocked water  highway.  "  The  great  water," 


The  Bay  Settlement.  231 

supposed  by  Nicolet  to  mean  the  China  Sea, 
was  the  Mississippi  River,  beyond  which  bar- 
rier the  Dakotah  race  held  full  sway.  As  he 
approached,  one  of  his  Huron  guides  was  sent 
forward  to  herald  his  coming.  Landing  near 
the  mouth  of  the  river,  he  attired  himself  in  a 
gorgeous  damask  gown,  decorated  with  gayly 
colored  birds  and  flowers,  expecting  to  meet 
mandarins  who  would  be  similarly  dressed. 
A  horde  of  four  or  five  thousand  naked  sav- 
ages greeted  him.  He  advanced,  discharging 
the  pistols  which  he  held  in  either  hand,  and 
women  and  children  fled  in  terror  from  the 
manitou  who  carried  with  him  lightning  and 
thunder. 

The  mouth  of  the  Fox  was  always  a  favorite 
rallying-point  for  the  savages  of  this  section  of 
the  Northwest,  and  many  a  notable  council  has 
been  held  here  between  tribes  of  painted  red 
men  and  Jesuits,  traders,  explorers,  and  mili- 
tary officers.  Being  the  gateway  of  one  of 
the  two  great  routes  to  the  Mississippi,  many 
notable  exploring  and  military  expeditions 
have  rested  here  ;  and  French,  English,  and 
Americans  in  turn  have  maintained  forts  to 
protect  the  interests  of  territorial  possession 
and  the  fur-trade. 

Here  it  was  that  a  white  man  first  set  foot 
on  Wisconsin  soil;  and  here,  also,  in  1745, 


232  Historic  Waterways. 

the  De  Langlades,  first  permanent  settlers  of 
the  Badger  State,  reared  their  log  cabins  and 
initiated  a  semblance  of  white  man's  civiliza- 
tion. Green  Bay,  now  hoary  with  age,  has 
had  an  eventful,  though  not  stirring  history. 
For  a  hundred  years  she  was  a  distributing- 
point  for  the  fur-trade. 

The  descendants  of  the  De  Langlades,  the 
Grignons  and  other  colonists  of  nearly  a  cen- 
tury and  a  half  standing,  are  still  on  the  spot ; 
and  the  gossip  of  the  hour  among  the  voya- 
genrs  and  old  traders  still  left  among  us  is  of 
John  Jacob  Astor,  Ramsay  Crooks,  Robert 
Stuart,  Major  Twiggs,  and  other  characters 
of  the  early  years  of  our  century,  whose  names 
are  well  known  to  frontier  history.  The  Creole 
quarter  of  this  ancient  town,  shiftless  and  im- 
provident to-day  as  it  always  has  been,  lives 
in  an  atmosphere  hazy  with  poetic  glamour, 
reveling  in  the  recollection  of  a  once  festive, 
half-savage  life,  when  the  courier  de  bois  and 
the  engage  were  in  the  ascendency  at  this  for- 
est outpost,  and  the  fur-trade  the  be-all  and 
end-all  of  commercial  enterprise.  Your  voy- 
ageur,  scratching  a  painful  living  for  a  hybrid 
brood  from  his  meager  potato  patch,  bemoans 
the  day  when  Yankee  progressiveness  dammed 
the  Fox  for  Yankee  saw-mills,  into  whose  in- 
satiable maws  were  swept  the  forests  of  his 


The  Bay  Settlement.  233 

youth,  and  remembers  nought  but  the  sweets 
of  his  early  calling  among  his  boon  compan- 
ions, the  denizens  of  the  wilderness. 

In  Shanty  Town,  Astor,  and  Navarino  there 
yet  remain  many  dwellings  and  trading  ware- 
houses of  the  olden  time,  —  unpainted,  gaunt, 
poverty-stricken,  but  with  their  hand-hewed 
skeletons  of  oak  still  intact  beneath  the  rags 
of  a  century's  decay.  A  hundred  years  is  a 
period  quite  long  enough  in  our  land  to  war- 
rant the  brand  of  antiquity,  although  a  mere 
nothing  in  the  prolonged  career  of  the  Old 
World.  In  the  rapidly  developing  West,  a 
hundred  years  and  less  mark  the  gap  be- 
tween a  primeval  wilderness  and  a  complete 
civilization.  Time,  like  space,  is,  after  all,  but 
comparative.  In  these  hundred  years  the 
Northwest  has  developed  from  nothing  to 
everything.  It  is  as  great  a  period,  judging 
by  results,  as  ten  centuries  in  Europe,  —  per- 
haps fifteen.  America  is  said  to  have  no 
history.  On  the  contrary,  it  has  the  most 
romantic  of  histories  ;  but  it  has  lived  faster 
and  crowded  more  and  greater  deeds  into  the 
past  hundred  years  than  slow-going  Europe 
in  the  last  ten  hundred.  The  American  cen- 
tenarian of  to-day  is  older  by  far  than  the 
fabled  Methuselah. 

Green  Bay,  classic  in  her  shanty  ruins,  has 


234  Historic  Waterways. 

been  somewhat  halting  in  her  advance,  for  the 
Creoles  hamper  progressiveness.  But  as  the 
voyageurs  and  their  immediate  progeny 
gradually  pass  away,  the  community  creeps 
out  from  the  shadow  of  the  past  and 
asserts  itself.  The  ancient  town  appears  to 
be  taking  on  a  new  and  healthy  growth,  in 
strange  contrast  to  the  severe  and  battered 
architecture  of  frontier  times.  Socially, 
Green  Bay  is  delightful.  There  are  many  old 
families,  whose  founders  were  engaged  in 
superintending  the  fur-trade  and  transporta- 
tion lines,  or  holding  government  office, 
civil  or  military,  at  the  wilderness  post.  This 
element,  well  educated  and  reared  in  comfort, 
gives  a  tone  of  dignified,  old-school  hospital- 
ity to  the  best  society,  —  it  is  the  Knicker- 
bocker Colony  of  the  Bay  Settlement. 

At  four  o'clock  we  pushed  into  a  canal  in 
front  of  the  Fort  Howard  railway  depot,  and 
half  an  hour  later  had  crossed  the  bridge  and 
were  registered  at  a  Green  Bay  hotel.  The 
Doctor,  called  home  to  resume  the  humdrum 
of  his  hospital  life,  will  leave  for  the  South 
to-morrow  noon.  I  shall  remain  here  for  a 
week,  reposing  in  the  shades  of  antiquity. 


THE    WISCONSIN    RIVER. 


THE   WISCONSIN    RIVER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ALONE    IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 

OUR    watches,   for   a   wonder,   coincided 
on  Monday  afternoon,  Aug.  22,    1887. 

This  phenomenon  is  so  rare  that  W made 

a  note  in  her  diary  to  the  effect  that  for 
once  in  its  long  career  my  time-piece  was 
right.  It  was  five  minutes  past  two.  The 
place  was  the  beach  at  Portage,  just  below 
the  old  red  wagon-bridge  which  here  spans 
the  gloomy  Wisconsin.  A  teamster  had 
hauled  us,  our  canoe,  and  our  baggage  from 
the  depot  to  the  verge  of  a  sand-bank ;  and 
we  had  dragged  our  faithful  craft  down 
through  a  tangle  of  sand-burrs  and  tin  cans 
to  the  water's  edge,  and  packed  the  locker  for 
its  third  and  final  voyage  of  the  season.  A 


238  Historic  Waterways. 

German  housewife,  with  red  kerchief,  cap,  and 
tucked-up  skirt,  stood  out  in  the  water  on  the 
edge  of  a  gravel-spit,  engaged  in  her  weekly 
wrestle  with  the  family  wash, — a  picturesque, 
foreign-looking  scene.  On  the  summit  of  a 
sandy  promontory  to  our  left,  two  other  Ger- 
man housewives  leaned  over  a  pig-yard  fence 
and  gazed  intently  down  at  these  strange 
preparations.  Back  of  us  were  the  wooded 
sand-drifts  of  Portage,  once  a  famous  camping- 
ground  of  the  Winnebagoes  ;  before  us,  the 
dark,  treacherous  river,  with  its  shallows  and 
its  mysterious  depths ;  beyond  that,  great 
stretches  of  sand-fields  thick-strewn  with  wil- 
low forests  and,  three  or  four  miles  away, 
the  forbidding  range  of  the  Baraboo  Bluffs, 
veiled  in  the  heavy  mist  which  was  rapidly 
closing  upon  the  valley. 

We  feared  that  we  were  booked  for  a  stormy 
trip,  as  we  pushed  out  into  the  bubble-strewn 
current  and  found  that  a  cold  east  wind  was 
blowing  over  the  flats  and  rowing-jackets  were 
essential. 

Portage  City,  a  town  of  twenty-five  hundred 
inhabitants,  occupies  the  southeastern  bank 
for  a  mile  down.  Like  Green  Bay  and  Prairie 
du  Chien,  it  was  an  outgrowth  of  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  early  fur-trade.  Upon  the  death  of 
that  trade  it  languished  and  for  a  generation 


Alone  in  the  Wilderness.        239 

or  two  was  utterly  stagnant.  As  a  rural 
trading  centre  it  has  since  grown  into  a  state 
of  fair  prosperity,  although  the  presence  of 
many  of  the  old-time  buildings  of  the  Indian 
traders  and  transporters  gives  to  much  of  the 
town  a  sadly  decayed  appearance.  For  two 
or  three  miles  we  had  Portage  in  view,  down 
a  straight  course,  until  at  last  the  thickening 
mist  hid  the  time-worn  houses  from  view,  and 
we  were  fairly  on  our  way  down  the  historic 
Wisconsin,  in  the  wake  of  Joliet  and  Mar- 
quette,  who  first  traversed  this  highway  to  the 
Mississippi,  two  hundred  and  fourteen  years 
ago. 

Marquette,  in  the  journal  of  his  memorable 
voyage,  says  of  the  Wisconsin,  "  It  is  very 
broad,  with  a  sandy  bottom,  forming  many 
shallows,  which  render  navigation  very  diffi- 
cult." The  river  has  been  frequently  de- 
scribed in  the  journals  of  later  voyagers,  and 
government  engineers  have  written  long  re- 
ports upon  its  condition,  but  they  have  not 
bettered  Marquette's  comprehensive  phrase. 

The  general  government  has  spent  enor- 
mous sums  in  an  endeavor  to  make  the  Fox- 
Wisconsin  water  highway  practicable  for  the 
passage  of  large  steam-vessels  between  the 
Great  Lakes  and  the  Mississippi  River.  It 
was  of  great  service,  in  its  natural  state,  for 


240  Historic  Waterways. 

the  passage  into  the  heart  of  the  continent  of 
that  motley  procession  of  priests,  explorers, 
cavaliers,  soldiers,  trappers,  and  traders  who 
paddled  their  canoes  through  here  for  nearly 
two  hundred  years,  the  pioneers  of  French, 
English,  and  American  civilization  in  turn. 
It  is  still  a  tempting  scheme,  to  tap  the  main 
artery  of  America,  and  allow  modern  vessels 
of  burden  to  make  the  circuit  between  the 
lakes  and  the  gulf.  The  Fox  River  is  reason- 
ably tractable,  although  this  season  the  stage 
of  water  above  Berlin  has  been  hardly  high 
enough  to  float  a  flat-boat.  But  the  Wis- 
consin remains,  despite  the  hundreds  of  wing- 
dams  which  line  her  shores,  a  fickle  jade  upon 
whom  no  reliance  whatever  can  be  placed. 
The  current  and  the  sand-banks  shift  about 
at  their  sweet  will  over  a  broad  valley,  and 
the  pilot  of  one  season  would  scarcely  recog- 
nize the  stream  another.  Navigation  for 
crafts  drawing  over  a  foot  of  water  is  practi- 
cally impossible  in  seasons  of  drought,  and 
uncertain  in  all.  A  noted  engineer  has 
playfully  said  that  the  Wisconsin  can  never 
be  regulated,  "  until  the  bottom  is  lathed  and 
plastered  ; "  and  another  officially  reported, 
over  fifteen  years  ago,  that  nothing  short  of 
a  continuous  canal  along  the  bank,  from 
Portage  to  Prairie  du  Chien,  will  suffice  to 


Alone  in  the  Wilderness.       241 

meet  the  expectations  of  those  who  favor  the 
government  improvement  of  this  impossible 
highway. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  Portage,  the  wing- 
dams,  —  composed  of  mattresses  of  willow 
boughs,  weighted  with  stone,  —  are  in  a 
reasonable  degree  of  preservation  and  in 
places  appear  to  be  of  some  avail  in  contract- 
ing the  channel.  But  elsewhere  down  the 
river,  they  are  generally  mere  hindrances  to 
canoeing.  The  current,  as  it  caroms  from 
shore  to  shore,  pays  but  little  heed  to  these 
obstructions  and  we  often  found  it  swiftest 
over  the  places  where  black  lines  of  willow 
twigs  bob  and  sway  above  the  surface  of  the 
rushing  water ;  while  the  channel  staked  out 
by  the  engineers  was  the  site  of  a  sand-field, 
studded  with  aspen-brush. 

It  is  a  lonely  run  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
down  to  the  mouth  of  the  Baraboo  River, 
through  the  mazes  of  the  wing-dams,  sur- 
rounded by  desolate  bottom  lands  of  sand  and 
wooded  bog.  The  east  wind  had  brought  a 
smart  shower  by  the  time  we  had  arrived  off 
the  mouth  of  this  northern  tributary  and  we 
hauled  up  at  a  low,  forested  bank  just  be- 
low the  junction,  where  rubber  coats  were 
brought  out  and  canvas  spread  over  the  stores. 
The  rain  soon  settled  into  a  mere  drizzle, 
16 


242  Historic  Waterways. 

and  W ,  ever  eager  in  her  botanical  re- 
searches, wandered  about  regardless  of  wet 
feet,  investigating  the  flora  of  the  locality. 
The  yellow  sneeze-weed  and  purple  iron-weed 
predominate  in  great  clumps  upon  the  verge 
of  the  bank,  and  lend  a  cheerful  tone  to  what 
would  otherwise  be  a  desolate  landscape. 

The  drizzle  finally  ceasing,  we  were  again 
afloat,  and  after  shooting  by  scores  of  wing- 
dams  that  had  been  "snowed under"  by  shift- 
ing sand,  and  floating  over  others  that  were 
in  the  heart  of  the  present  channel,  we  came 
to  Dekorra,  some  seven  miles  below  Portage. 
Dekorra  is  a  quaint  little  hamlet,  with  just 
five  weather-worn  houses  and  a  blacksmith- 
shop  in  sight,  nestled  in  a  hollow  at  the  base 
of  a  bluff  on  the  southern  bank.  The  river 
courses  at  its  feet,  and  from  the  top  of  a  naked 
cliff  a  ferry-wire  stretches  high  above  the 
stream  and  loses  itself  among  the  trees  on  the 
opposite  bottoms.  The  east  wind  whistled  a 
pretty  note  as  it  was  split  by  the  swaying 
thread,  and  the  anvil  by  the  smith's  forge 
rang  out  in  unison,  clear  as  a  well-toned  bell. 
A  crude  cemetery,  apparently  containing  far 
more  graves  than  Dekorra's  present  census 
would  show  inhabitants,  flanks  the  faded-out 
settlement  on  the  shoulder  of  an  adjoining 
hill.  The  road  to  the  tattered  ferry-boat, 


Alone  in  the  Wilderness.        243 

rotting  on  the  beach,  gave  but  little  evidence 
of  recent  use,  for  Dekorra  is  a  relic. 

The  valley  of  the  Wisconsin  is  from  three 
to  five  miles  broad,  flanked  on  either  side, 
below  the  Portage,  by  an  undulating  range  of 
'imposing  bluffs,  from  one  hundred  and  fifty 
to  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height. 
They  are  heavily  wooded,  as  a  rule,  although 
there  is  much  variety,  —  pleasant  grass-grown 
slopes ;  naked,  water-washed  escarpments, 
rising  sheer  above  the  stream  ;  terraced  hills, 
with  eroded  faces,  ascending  in  a  regular  suc- 
cession of  benches  to  the  cliff-like  tops  ;  steep 
uplands,  either  covered  with  a  dense  and  reg- 
ular growth  of  forest,  or  shattered  by  fire 
or  tornado.  The  ravines  and  pocket-fields 
between  the  bluffs  are  often  of  exceeding 
beauty,  especially  when  occupied  by  a  modest 
little  village,  —  or  better,  by  some  small  settler, 
whose  outlet  to  the  country  beyond  the  edge 
of  his  mountain  basin  may  be  seen  threading 
the  woodlands  which  tower  above  him,  or  zig- 
zagging through  a  neighboring  pass,  worn 
deep  by  some  impatient  spring  torrent  in  a 
hurry  to  reach  the  river  level. 

Between  these  ranges  stretches  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  bottoms,  either  bog  or  sand  plain, 
over  all  of  which  the  river  flows  at  high 
water,  and  through  which  the  swift  current 


244  Historic  Waterways. 

twists  and  bounds  like  a  serpent  in  agony, 
constantly  cutting  out  new  channels  and  filling 
up  the  old,  obeying  laws  of  its  own,  ever  de- 
fying the  calculations  of  pilots  and  engineers. 
As  it  thus  sweeps  along,  wherever  its  fancy 
listeth,  here  to-day  and  there  to-morrow,  it 
forms  innumerable  islands  which  greatly  add 
to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  view.  Now  and 
then  there  are  two  or  three  parallel  channels, 
running  along  for  miles  before  they  join,  per- 
plexing the  traveler  with  a  labyrinth  of  water 
paths.  These  islands  are  often  mere  sand- 
bars, sometimes  as  barren  as  Sahara,  again 
thick-grown  with  willows  and  seedling  aspens ; 
but  for  the  most  part  they  are  well-wooded, 
their  banks  gay  with  the  season's  flowers,  and 
luxuriant  vines  hanging  in  deep  festoons  from 
the  trees  which  overhang  the  flood.  At  their 
heads,  often  high  up  among  the  branches  of 
the  elms,  are  great  masses  of  driftwood,  the 
remains  of  shattered  lumber-rafts  or  saw-mill 
offal  from  the  great  northern  pineries,  evi- 
dencing the  height  of  the  spring  flood  which 
so  often  converts  the  Wisconsin  into  an 
Amazon. 

Because  of  this  spreading  habit  of  the 
stream,  the  few  villages  along  the  way  are 
planted  on  the  higher  land  at  the  base  of  the 
bluffs,  or  on  an  occasional  sandy  pocket- 


Alone  in  the  Wilderness.       245 

plateau  which  the  river,  as  in  ages  past  it  has 
worn  its  bed  to  lower  levels,  has  left  high 
and  dry  above  present  overflows.  Some  of 
these  towns,  in  their  fear  of  floods,  are  situ- 
ated two  or  three  miles  back  from  the  water 
highway  ;  others,  where  the  channel  chances 
to  closely  hug  a  line  of  bluffs,  are  directly  abut- 
ting the  river,  which  is  crossed  at  such  points 
by  either  a  ferry  or  a  toll-bridge. 

Desolate  as  is  the  prospect  from  Dekorra's 
front  door,  we  found  the  limestone  cliff  there, 
a  mine  of  attractiveness.  The  river  has 
worn  miniature  caves  and  grottoes  in  its 
base  ;  at  the  mouths  of  several  of  these  there 
are  little  rocky  beaches,  whose  overhanging 
walls  are  flecked  with  ferns,  lichens,  and 
graceful  columbines. 

At  six  o'clock  that  evening,  in  the  midst  of 
a  dispiriting  Scotch  mist,  we  disembarked 
upon  the  northern  bank,  at  the  foot  of  a 
wooded  bluff,  and  prepared  to  settle  for  the 
night.  Fortunately,  we  had  advance  knowl- 
edge of  the  sparseness  of  settlement  along 
the  river,  and  had  come  with  a  tent  and  a 
cooking  outfit,  prepared  for  camping  in  case 
of  need.  Upon  a  rocky  bench,  fifty  feet  up 
from  the  water,  we  stretched  a  rope  between 
two  trees,  to  serve  in  lieu  of  a  ridge-pole,  and 
pitched  our  canvas  domicile.  It  was  a  lone- 


246  Historic  Waterways. 

some  spot  which  we  had  chosen  for  our  night's 
halt.  Owing  to  the  configuration  of  the  bluffs, 
it  was  unlikely  that  any  person  dwelt  within 
a  mile  of  us  on  our  shore.  Across  the  valley, 
we  looked  over  several  miles  of  bottom  woods, 
while  far  up  on  the  opposite  slopes  could  just 
be  discerned  the  gables  of  two  white  farm- 
houses, peering  out  from  a  wilderness  of  trees 
stretching  far  and  wide,  till  its  limits  were 
lost  in  the  gathering  fog. 

It  was  pitchy  dark  by  the  time  we  had  com- 
pleted our  camping  arrangements,  and  W 

announced  that  the  coffee  was  boiling  over. 
I  fancy  we  two  must  have  presented  a  rather 
forlorn  appearance,  as  we  crouched  at  our 
evening  meal  around  the  sputtering  little  fire, 
clad  in  heavy  jackets  and  rubber  coats,  for 
the  atmosphere  was  raw  and  clammy.  The 
wood  was  wet,  and  the  shifting  gusts  would 
persist  in  blowing  the  smoke  in  our  eyes, 
whichever  position  we  took.  Every  falling 
bough,  or  rustle  of  a  water-laden  sapling,  was 
suggestive  of  tramps  or  of  inquisitive  hogs  or 
cattle,  for  we  knew  not  what  neighbors  we 
had  ;  many  a  time  we  paused,  and  peering 
out  into  the  black  night,  listened  intently  for 
further  developments.  And  then  the  strange 
noises  from  the  river,  unnoticed  during  day- 
light, were  not  conducive  to  mental  ease, 


Alone  in  the  Wilderness,        247 

when  we  nervously  associated  them  with 
roving  fishermen,  or  perhaps  tramps,  attracted 
by  our  light  from  the  opposite  shore.  Some- 
times we  felt  positive  that  we  heard  the 
muffled  creak  of  oars,  fast  approaching;  then 
would  come  loud  splashes  and  gurgles,  and 
ever  and  anon  it  would,  seem  as  if  some  one 
were  slapping  the  water  with  a  board.  Now 
near,  now  far  away,  approaching  and  receding 
by  turns,  these  mysterious  sounds  continued 
through  the  night,  occasionally  relieved  by 
moments  of  absolute  silence.  We  afterward 
discovered  that  these  were  the  customary 
refrains  sung  by  the  gay  tide,  as  it  washed 
over  the  wing-dams,  swished  around  the  sand- 
banks, and  dashed  against  great  snags  and 
island  heads. 

But  we  did  not  know  this  then,  and  a  cer- 
tain uneasy  lonesomeness  overcame  us  as 
strangers  to  the  scene  ;  and  I  must  confess 
that,  despite  our  philosophizing,  there  was 
but  little  sleep  for  us  that  first  camp  out. 
A  neglect  to  procure  straw  to  soften  our 
rocky  couches,  and  a  woful  insufficiency  of 
bed-clothing  for  a  phenomenally  cold  August 
night,  added  to  our  manifold  discomforts. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE   LAST   OF   THE    SACS. 

TP\AWN  came  at  five,  and  none  too  soon. 
•*-•'  But  after  thawing  out  over  the  break- 
fast fire  and  draining  the  coffee-pot  dry,  we 
were  wondrously  rejuvenated  ;  and  as  we 
struck  camp,  were  right  merry  between  our- 
selves over  the  foolish  nervousness  of  the 
night.  There  was  still  a  raw  northwest  wind, 
but  the  clouds  soon  broke,  and  when,  at  half- 
past  six,  we  again  pushed  out  into  the  swift- 
flowing  stream,  it  was  evident  that  the  day 
would  be  bright  and  comfortably  cool. 

We  had  some  splendid  vistas  of  bluff-girt 
scenery  this  morning,  especially  near  Merri- 
mac,  where  some  of  the  elevations  are  the 
highest  along  the  river.  There  are  a  score 
of  houses  at  Merrimac,  which  is  the  point 
where  the  Chicago  and  Northwestern  railway 
crosses,  over  an  immense  iron  bridge  1736 
feet  long,  spanning  two  broad  channels  and 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.          249 

the  sand  island  which  divides  them.  The 
village  is  on  a  rolling  plateau  some  fifty  feet 
above  the  water  level,  on  the  northern  side. 
Climbing  up  to  the  bridge-tender's  house,  that 
one-armed  veteran  of  the  spans,  whose  service 
here  is  as  old  as  the  bridge,  told  me  that  it 
was  seldom  indeed  the  river  highway  was 
used  in  these  days.  "  The  railroads  kill  this 
here  water  business,"  he  said. 

I  found  the  tender  to  be  something  of  a 
philosopher.  Most  bridge-tenders  and  fish- 
ermen, and  others  who  pursue  lonely  occupa- 
tions and  have  much  spare  time  on  their 
hands,  are  philosophers.  That  their  specula- 
tions are  sometimes  cloudy  does  not  detract 
from  their  local  reputation  of  being  deep 
thinkers.  The  Merrimac  tender  was  given 
to  geology,  I  found,  and  some  of  his  ideas 
concerning  the  origin  of  the  bluffs  and  the 
glacial  streaks,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
would  create  marked  attention  in  any  scien- 
tific journal.  He  had  some  original  notions, 
too,  about  the  habits  of  the  stream  above 
which  he  had  almost  hourly  walked,  day  and 
night,  the  seasons  round,  for  sixteen  long 
years.  The  ice  invariably  commenced  to 
form  on  the  bottom  of  the  river,  he  stoutly 
claimed,  and  then  rose  to  the  surface,  —  the 
ingenious  reason  given  for  this  remarkable 


250  Historic  Waterways. 

phenomenon  being  that  the  underlying  sand 
was  colder  than  the  water.  These  and  other 
novel  results  of  his  observation,  our  philo- 
sophical friend  good-humoredly  communi- 
cated, together  with  scraps  of  local  tradition 
regarding  the  Black  Hawk  War,  and  lurid 
tales  of  the  old  lumber-raft  days.  At  last, 
however,  his  hour  came  for  walking  the  spans, 
and  we  descended  to  our  boat.  As  we  shot 
into  the  main  channel,  far  above  us  a  red  flag 
flattered  from  the  draw,  and  we  knew  it  to  be 
the  parting  salute  of  the  grizzled  sentinel. 

At  the  head  of  an  island  half  a  mile  below, 
it  is  said  there  are  the  remains  of  an  Indian 
fort.  We  landed  with  some  difficulty,  for  the 
current  sweeps  by  its  wooded  shore  with  par- 
ticular zest.  Our  examination  of  the  locality, 
however,  revealed  no  other  earth  lines  than 
might  have  been  formed  by  a  rushing  flood. 
But  as  a  reward  for  our  endeavors,  we  found 
the  lobelia  cardinalis  in  wonderful  profusion, 
mingled  in  striking  contrast  of  color  with 
the  iron  and  sneeze  weeds,  and  the  common 
spurge.  The  prickly  ash,  with  its  little  scarlet 
berry,  was  common  upon  this  as  upon  other 
islands,  and  the  elms  were  of  remarkable 
size. 

We  were  struck,  as  we  passed  along  where 
the  river  chanced  to  wash  the  feet  of  steepy 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.  251 

slopes,  with  the  peculiar  ridging  of  the  turf. 
The  water  having  undermined  these  banks, 
the  friable  soil  upon  their  shoulders  had  slid, 
regularly  breaking  the  sod  into  long  hori- 
zontal strips  a  foot  or  two  wide,  the  white 
sand  gleaming  between  the  rows  of  rusty 
green.  Sometimes  the  shores  were  thus 
striped  with  zebra-like  regularity  for  miles 
together,  presenting  a  very  singular  and  arti- 
ficial appearance. 

Prominent  features  of  the  morning's  voy- 
age, also,  were  deep  bowlder-strewn  and  often 
heavily  wooded  ravines  running  down  from 
the  bluffs.  Although  perfectly  dry  at  this 
season,  it  can  be  seen  that  they  are  the  beds 
of  angry  torrents  in  the  spring,  and  many  a 
poor  farmer's  field  is  deeply  cut  with  such 
gulches,  which  rapidly  grow  in  this  light  soil 
as  the  years  go  on.  We  stopped  at  one  such 
farm,  and  walked  up  the  great  breach  to  very 
near  the  house,  up  to  which  we  clambered, 
over  rocks  and  through  sand-burrs  and  thick- 
ets, being  met  at  the  gate  by  a  noisy  dog,  that 
appeared  to  be  suspicious  of  strangers  who 
approached  his  master's  castle  by  means  of 
the  covered  way.  The  farmer's  wife,  as  she 
supplied  us  with  exquisite  dairy  products, 
said  that  the  metes  and  bounds  of  their  little 
domain  were  continually  changing;  four  acres 


252  Historic  Waterways. 

of  their  best  meadow  had  been  washed  out 
within  two  years,  their  wood-lot  was  being 
gradually  undermined,  and  the  ravine  was 
eating  into  their  ploughed  land  with  the  per- 
sistence of  a  cancer.  On  the  other  hand,  her 
sister's  acres,  down  the  river  a  mile  or  two, 
on  the  other  bank,  were  growing  in  extent. 
However,  she  thought  their  "  luck  would 
change  one  of  these  seasons,"  and  the  river 
swish  off  upon  another  tangent. 

Upon  returning  by  the  gully,  we  found  that 
its  sunny,  sloping  walls,  where  not  wooded 
with  willows  and  oak  saplings,  were  resplen- 
dent with  floral  treasures,  chief  among  them 
being  the  gerardia,  golden-rod  in  several  vari- 
eties, tall  white  asters,  a  blue  lobelia,  and  ver- 
vain, while  the  seeds  of  the  Oswego  tea,  prairie 
clover,  bed-straw,  and  wild  roses  were  in 
all  the  glory  of  ripeness.  There  was  a  broad, 
pebbly  beach  at  the  base  of  the  torrent's 
bed,  thick-grown  with  yearling  willows.  A 
stranded  pine-log,  white  with  age  and  worn 
smooth  by  a  generation  of  storms,  lay  firmly 
imbedded  among  the  shingle.  The  temper- 
ature was  still  low  enough  to  induce  us  to 
court  the  sunshine,  and,  leaning  against  this 
hoary  castaway  from  the  far  North,  we  sat 
for  a  while  and  basked  in  the  radiant  smiles 
of  Sol. 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.          253 

Prairie  du  Sac,  thirty  miles  below  Portage, 
is  historically  noted  as  the  site  for  several 
generations  of  the  chief  village  of  the  Sac  In- 
dians. Some  of  the  earliest  canoeists  over  this 
water-route,  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  describe  the  aboriginal  community 
in  some  detail.  The  dilapidated  white  vil- 
lage of  to-day  numbers  but  four  hundred  and 
fifty  inhabitants,  —  about  one-fourth  of  the 
population  assigned  to  the  old  red-skin  town. 
The  "prairie  "  is  an  oak-opening  plateau,  more 
or  less  fertile,  at  the  base  of  the  northern  range 
of  bluffs,  which  here  takes  a  sudden  sweep 
inland  for  three  or  four  miles. 

The  Sacs  had  deserted  this  basin  plain  by 
the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  taken 
up  their  chief  quarters  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Rock  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  Rock 
River,  in  close  proximity  to  their  allies,  the 
Foxes,  who  now  kept  watch  and  ward  over 
the  west  bank  of  the  Mississippi. 

By  a  strange  fatality  it  chanced  that  in  the 
last  days  of  July,  1832,  the  deluded  Sac 
leader,  Black  Hawk,  flying  from  the  wrath  of 
the  Illinois  and  Wisconsin  militiamen,  under 
Henry  and  Dodge,  chose  this  seat  of  the 
ancient  power  of  his  tribe  to  be  one  of  the 
scenes  of  that  fearful  tragedy  which  proved 
the  death-blow  to  Sac  ambition.  Black  Hawk, 


254  Historic  Waterways. 

after  long  hiding  in  the  morasses  of  the  Rock 
above  Lake  Koshkonong,  suddenly  flew  from 
cover,  hoping  to  cross  the  Wisconsin  River 
at  Prairie  du  Sac,  and  by  plunging  across  the 
mountainous  country  over  a  trail  known  to 
the  Winnebagoes,  who  played  fast  and  loose 
with  him  as  with  the  whites,  to  get  beyond  the 
Mississippi  in  quiet,  as  he  had  been  originally 
ordered  to  do.  His  retreat  was  discovered  when 
but  a  day  old  ;  and  the  militiamen  hurried  on 
through  the  Jefferson  swamps  and  the  forests 
of  the  Four  Lake  country,  harrying  the  fugi- 
tives in  the  rear.  At  the  summit  of  the  Wis- 
consin Heights,  on  the  south  bank,  overlooking 
this  old  Sac  plain  on  the  north,  Black  Hawk 
and  his  rear-guard  stood  firm,  to  allow  the 
women  and  children  and  the  majority  of  his 
band  of  two  thousand  to  cross  the  interven- 
ing bottoms  and  the  island-strewn  river. 
The  unfortunate  leader  sat  upon  a  white  horse 
on  the  summit  of  the  peak  now  called  by  his 
name,  and  shouted  directions  to  his  handful 
of  braves.  The  movements  of  the  latter  were 
well  executed,  and  Black  Hawk  showed  good 
generalship  ;  but  the  militiamen  were  also 
well  handled,  and  had  superior  supplies  of 
ammunition,  so  when  darkness  fell  the  fated 
ravine  and  the  wooded  bottoms  below  were 
strewn  with  Indian  bodies,  and  victory  was 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.          255 

with  the  whites.  During  the  night  the  surviv- 
ing fugitives,  now  ragged,  foot-sore,  and  starv- 
ing, crossed  the  river  by  swimming.  A  party 
of  fifty  or  so,  chiefly  non-combatants,  made  a 
raft,  and  floated  down  the  Wisconsin,  to  be 
slaughtered  near  its  mouth  by  a  detail  of 
regulars  and  Winnebagoes  from  Prairie  clu 
Chien  ;  but  the  mass  of  the  party  flying  west- 
ward in  hot  haste  over  the  prairie  of  the  Sacs, 
headed  for  the  Mississippi.  They  lined  their 
rugged  path  with  the  dead  and  dying  victims 
of  starvation  and  despair,  and  a  sorry  lot  these 
people  were  when  the  Bad  Axe  was  finally 
reached,  and  the  united  army  of  regulars  and 
militiamen  under  Atkinson,  Henry,  and  Dodge, 
overtook  them.  The  "  battle "  there  was  a 
slaughter  of  weaklings.  But  few  escaped 
across  the  great  river,  and  the  bloodthirsty 
Sioux  despatched  nearly  all  of  those. 

Black  Hawk  was  surrendered  by  the  servile 
Winnebagoes,  and  after  being  exhibited  in  the 
Eastern  cities,  he  was  turned  over  to  the  be- 
sotted Keokuk  for  safe-keeping.  He  died,  this 
last  of  the  Sacs,  poor,  foolish  old  man,  a  few 
years  later  ;  and  his  bones,  stolen  for  an  Iowa 
museum,  were  cremated  twenty  years  after 
in  a  fire  which  destroyed  that  institution.  A 
sad  history  is  that  of  this  once  famous  people. 
We  glory  over  the  stately  progress  of  the  white 


256  Historic  Waterways. 

man's  civilization,  but  if  we  venture  to  examine 
with  care  the  paths  of  that  progress,  we  find 
our  imperial  chariot  to  be  as  the  car  of 
Juggernaut. 

The  view  from  the  house  verandas  which 
overhang  the  high  bank  at  Prairie  du  Sac,  is 
superb.  Eastward  a  half  mile  away,  the 
grand,  corrugated  bluffs  of  Black  Hawk  and 
the  Sugar  Loaf  tower  to  a  height  of  over 
three  hundred  feet  above  the  river  level  ; 
while  their  lesser  companions,  heavily  for- 
ested, continue  the  range,  north  and  south, 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  The  river 
crosses  the  foreground  with  a  majestic  sweep, 
while  for  several  miles  to  the  west  and  south- 
west stretches  the  wooded  plain,  backed  by 
a  curved  line  of  gloomy  hills  which  com- 
plete the  rim  of  the  basin. 

A  mile  below,  on  the  same  plain,  is  Sank 
City,  a  shabby  town  of  about  a  thousand  in- 
habitants. A  spur  track  of  the  Chicago,  Mil- 
waukee, and  St.  Paul  railway  runs  up  here  from 
Mazomanie,  crossing  the  river,  which  is  nearly 
half  a  mile  wide,  on  an  iron  bridge.  A  large 
and  prosperous  brewery  appears  to  be  the 
chief  industry  of  the  place.  Slaughter-houses 
abut  upon  the  stream,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
village.  These  and  the  squalid  back-door 
yards  which  run  down  to  the  bank  do  not 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.          257 

make  up  an  attractive  picture  to  the  canoeist. 
River  towns  differ  very  much  in  this  respect. 
Some  of  them  present  a  neat  front  to  the 
water  thoroughfare,  with  flower-gardens  and 
well-kept  yards  and  street-ends,  while  others 
regard  the  river  as  a  sewer  and  the  banks  as 
a  common  dumping  ground,  giving  the  trav- 
eler by  boat  a  view  of  filth,  disorder,  and 
general  unsightliness  which  is  highly  repul- 
sive. I  have  often  found,  on  landing  at  some 
villages  of  this  latter  class,  that  the  dwellings 
and  business  blocks  which,  riverward,  are 
sad  spectacles  of  foulness  and  unthrift,  have 
quite  pretentious  fronts  along  the  land  high- 
way which  the  townsfolk  patronize.  It  is  as 
if  some  fair  dame,  who  prided  herself  on  her 
manners  and  costume,  had  rags  beneath 
her  fine  silks,  and  unwashed  hands  within  her 
dainty  gloves.  This  coming  in  at  the  back 
door  of  river  towns  reveals  many  a  secret  of 
sham. 

It  was  a  fine  run  down  to  Arena  ferry, 
thirteen  miles  below  Sauk  City.  The  skies 
had  become  leaden  and  the  atmosphere  gray, 
and  the  sparse,  gnarled  poplars  on  some  of 
the  storm-swept  bluffs  had  a  ghostly  effect. 
Here  and  there,  fires  had  blasted  the  moun- 
tainous slopes,  and  a  light  aspen  growth  was 
hastening  to  garb  with  vivid  green  the  black- 
17 


258  Historic  Waterways. 

ened  ruins.  But  the  general  impression  was 
that  of  dark,  gloomy  forests  of  oak,  linden, 
maple,  and  elms,  on  both  upland  and  bottom  ; 
with  now  and  then  a  noble  pine  cresting  a 
shattered  cliff. 

There  were  fitful  gleams  of  sunshine,  dur- 
ing which  the  temperature  was  as  high  as 
could  be  comfortably  tolerated  ;  but  the 
northwest  wind  swept  sharply  down  through 
the  ravines,  and  whenever  the  heavens  be- 
came overcast,  jackets  were  at  once  essential. 

The  islands  became  more  frequent,  as  we 
progressed.  Many  of  them  are  singularly 
beautiful.  The  swirling  current  gradually 
undermines  their  bases,  causing  the  trees 
to  topple  toward  the  flood,  with  many  graceful 
effects  of  outline,  particularly  when  viewed 
above  the  island  head.  And  the  colors,  too, 
at  this  season,  are  charmingly  variegated. 
The  sapping  of  a  tree's  foundations  brings  early 
decay ;  and  the  maples,  especially,  are  thus 
early  in  the  season  gay  with  the  autumnal 
tints  of  gold  and  wine  and  purple,  objects  of 
striking  beauty  for  miles  away.  Under  the 
arches  of  the  toppling  trees,  and  inside  the 
lines  of  snags  which  mark  the  islet's  former 
limits,  the  current  goes  swishing  through, 
white  with  bubbles  and  dancing  foam.  Crouch- 
ing low,  to  escape  the  twigs,  one  can  have 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.          259 

enchanting  rides  beneath  these  bowers,  and 
catch  rare  glimpses  of  the  insulated  flora  on 
the  swift-passing  banks.  The  stately  spikes 
of  the  cardinal  lobelia  fairly  dazzle  the  eye 
with  their  gleaming  color ;  and  great  masses 
of  brilliant  yellow  sneeze-weed  and  the  deep 
purple  of  the  iron-weed  present  a  symphony 
which  would  delight  a  disciple  of  Whistler. 
Thus  are  the  islands  ever  being  destroyed  and 
new  ones  formed.  Those  bottom  lands,  over 
there,  where  great  forests  are  rooted,  will 
have  their  turn  yet,  and  the  buffeted  sand-bars 
of  to-day  given  a  restful  chance  to  become 
bottoms.  The  game  of  shuttlecock  and  bat- 
tledoor  has  been  going  on  in  this  dark  and 
awesome  gorge  since  Heaven  knows  when. 
Man's  attempt  to  control  its  movements  seem 
puny  indeed. 

At  six  o'clock  that  evening  we  had  arrived 
at  the  St.  Paul  railway  bridge  at  Helena. 
The  tender  and  his  wife  are  a  hospitable 
couple,  and  we  engaged  quarters  in  their  cosy 
home  at  the  southern  end  of  the  bridge.  Mrs. 
P —  -  has  a  delightful  flower-garden,  which 
looks  like  an  oasis  in  the  wilderness  of  sand 
and  bog  thereabout.  Twenty-three  years  ago, 
when  these  worthy  people  first  took  charge 
of  the  bridge,  the  earth  for  this  walled-in 
beauty  spot  was  imported  by  rail  from  a  more 


260  Historic  Waterways. 

fertile  valley  than  the  Wisconsin ;  and  here 
the  choicest  of  bulbs  and  plants  are  grown 
with  rare  floricultural  skill,  and  the  train- 
men all  along  the  division  are  resplendent  in 
button-hole  bouquets,  the  year  round,  pro- 
ducts of  the  bridge-house  bower  at  Helena. 

W and  Mrs.  P at  once  struck  up  an 

enthusiastic  botanical  friendship. 

Bridge  houses  are  generally  most  forlorn 
specimens  of  railway  architecture,  and  have 
a  barricaded  look,  as  though  tramps  were  al- 
together too  frequent  along  the  route,  and 
occasionally  made  trouble  for  the  watchers  of 
the  ties.  This  one,  originally  forbidding 
enough,  has  been  transformed  into  a  winsome 
vine-clad  home,  gay  with  ivies,  Madeira  vines, 
and  passion,  moon,  and  trumpet  flowers,  cover- 
ing from  view  the  professional  dull  green 
affected  by  "  the  company's "  boss  painter. 
The  made  garden,  to  one  side,  was  choking 
with  a  wealth  of  bedding  plants  and  green- 
house rarities  of  every  hue  and  shape  of 
blossom  and  leaf. 

A  dozen  feet  below  the  railroad  level, 
spread  wide  morasses  and  sand  patches, 
thick  grown  with  swamp  elms  and  willows. 
Down  the  track,  a  half  mile  to  the  south, 
Helena's  fifty  inhabitants  are  grouped  in  a 
dozen  faded  dwellings.  Three  miles  west- 


The  Last  of  the  Sacs.          261 

ward,   across   the    river,   is    the   pretty   and 
flourishing  village  -of  Spring  Green. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  in  the  isolated 
home    of   these   lovers    of    flowers,   we   had 

comfortable   quarters.      W said   that   it 

was  very  much  like  putting  up  at  Rudder 
Grange. 


CHAPTER    III. 

A    PANORAMIC    VIEW. 

THE  fog  on  the  river  was  so  thick,  next 
morning,  that  objects  four  rods  away 
were  not  visible.  To  navigate  among  the 
snags  and  shallows  under  such  conditions 
was  impossible.  But  W closely  in- 
vestigated the  garden  while  waiting  for  the 

mist  to  rise,  and  Mr.   P entertained  me 

with  intelligent  reminiscences  of  his  long 
experience  here.  It  had  been  four  years, 
he  said,  since  he  last  swung  the  draw  for  a 
river  craft.  That  was  a  small  steamboat 
attempting  to  make  the  passage,  on  what 
was  considered  a  good  stage  of  water,  from 
Portage  to  the  mouth.  She  spent  two  weeks 
in  passing  from  Arena  to  Lone  Rock,  a 
distance  of  twenty-two  miles,  and  was  finally 
abandoned  on  a  sand-bank  for  the  season. 
He  doubted  whether  he  would  have  occasion 
again  to  swing  the  great  span.  As  for  lum- 


A  Panoramic  View.  263 

her  rafts,  but  three  or  four  small  ones  had 
passed  down  this  year,  for  the  railroads  were 
transporting  the  product  of  the  great  mills 
on  the  Upper  Wisconsin,  about  as  cheap  as 
it  could  be  driven  down  river  and  with  far 
less  risk  of  disaster.  The  days  of  river  traffic 
were  numbered,  he  declared,  and  the  little 
towns  that  had  so  long  been  supported  by  the 
raftsmen,  on  their  long  and  weary  journey 
from  the  northern  pineries  to  the  Hannibal 
and  St.  Louis  markets,  were  dying  of  star- 
vation. 

I  questioned  our  host  as  to  his  opinion  of 
the  value  of  the  Fox- Wisconsin  river  improve- 
ment. He  was  cautious  at  first,  and  claimed 
that  the  money  appropriated  had  "  done  a  great 
deal  of  good  to  the  poor  people  along  the  line." 
Closer  inquiry  developed  the  fact  that  these 
poor  people  had  been  employed  in  building 
the  wing  dams,  for  which  local  contracts  had 
been  let.  When  his  opinion  of  the  value  of 

these  dams  was  sought,  Mr.  P admitted 

that  the  general  opinion  along  the  river  was, 
that  they  were  "  all  nonsense,"  as  he  put  it. 
Contracts  had  been  let  to  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Harry,  in  the  river  villages,  who  had  made 
a  show  of  work,  in  the  absence  of  inspectors, 
by  sinking  bundles  of  twigs  and  covering 
them  with  sand.  Stone  that  had  been  hauled 


264  Historic  Waterways. 

to  the  banks,  to  weight  the  mattresses,  had 
remained  unused  for  so  long  that  popular 
judgment  awarded  it  to  any  man  who  was 
enterprising  enough  to  cart  it  away ;  thus 
was  many  a  barn  foundation  hereabouts  built 
out  of  government  material.  Sand-ballasted 
wing-dams  built  one  season  were  washed  out 
the  next ;  and  so  government  money  has 
been  recklessly  frittered  away.  Such  sort  of 
management  is  responsible  for  the  loose  mo- 
rality of  the  public  concerning  anything  the 
general  government  has  in  hand.  A  man 
may  steal  from  government  with  impunity, 
who  would  be  socially  ostracized  for  cheating 
his  neighbor.  There  exists  a  popular  senti- 
ment along  this  river,  as  upon  its  twin,  the 
Fox,  that  government  is  bound  to  squander 
about  so  much  money  every  year  in  one  way 
or  another,  and  that  the  denizens  of  these  two 
valleys  are  entitled  to  their  share  of  the  plun- 
der. One  honest  captain  on  the  Fox  said  to 
me,  "  If  it  wa'n't  for  this  here  appropriation, 
Wisconsin  would  n't  get  her  proportion  of  the 
public  money  what  each  State  is  regularly 
entitled  to  ;  so  I  think  it 's  necessary  to  keep 
this  here  scheme  a-goin',  for  to  get  our  dues  ; 
of  course  the  thing  ain't  much  good,  so  far  as 
what  is  claimed  for  it  goes,  but  it  keeps 
money  movin'  in  these  valleys  and  makes 


A  Panoramic  View.  265 

times  easier,  —  and  that 's  what  guvment  's 
for."  The  honest  skipper  would  have  been 
shocked,  probably,  if  I  had  called  him  a 
socialist,  for  a  few  minutes  after  he  was  de- 
claiming right  vigorously  against  Herr  Most 
and  the  Chicago  anarchists. 

It  was  half-past  nine  before  the  warmth  of 
the  sun's  rays  had  dissipated  the  vapor,  and 
we  ventured  to  set  forth.  It  proved  to  be  an 
enchanting  day  in  every  respect. 

A  mile  or  so  below  the  bridge  we  came  to 
the  charming  site,  on  the  southern  bank,  at 
the  base  of  a  splendid  limestone  bluff,  of  the 
village  of  Old  Helena,  now  a  nameless  clump 
of  battered  dwellings.  There  is  a  ferry  here 
and  a  wooden  toll-bridge  in  process  of  erec- 
tion. The  naked  cliff,  rising  sheer  above  the 
rapid  current,  was,  early  in  this  century,  util- 
ized as  a  shot  tower.  There  are  lead  mines 
some  fifteen  miles  south,  that  were  worked 
nearly  fifty  years  before  Wisconsin  became 
even  a  Territory ;  and  hither  the  pigs  were,  as 
late  as  1830,  laboriously  drawn  by  wagons,  to 
be  precipitated  down  a  rude  stone  shaft  built 
against  this  cliff,  and  thus  converted  into  shot. 
Much  of  the  lead  used  by  the  Indians  and 
white  trappers  of  the  region  came  from  the 
Helena  tower,  and  its  product  was  in  great 
demand  during  the  Black  Hawk  War  in  1832. 


266  Historic  Waterways. 

The  remains  of  the  shaft  are  still  to  be  seen, 
although  much  overgrown  with  vines  and 
trees. 

Old  Helena,  in  the  earlier  shot-tower  days, 
was  one  of  the  "  boom  "  towns  of  "  the  howl- 
ing West."  But  the  boom  soon  collapsed,  and 
it  was  a  deserted  village  even  at  the  time  of 
the  Black  Hawk  disturbance.  After  the  bat- 
tle of  Wisconsin  Heights,  opposite  Prairie  du 
Sac,  the  white  army,  now  out  of  supplies,  re- 
tired southwest  to  Blue  Mound,  the  nearest 
lead  diggings,  for  recuperation.  Spending 
a  few  days  there,  they  marched  northwest  to 
Helena.  The  logs  and  slabs  which  had  been 
used  in  constructing  the  shanties  here  were 
converted  into  rafts,  and  upon  them  the  Wis- 
consin was  crossed,  the  operation  consuming 
two  days.  A  few  miles  north,  Black  Hawk's 
trail,  trending  westward  to  the  Bad  Axe,  was 
reached,  and  soon  after  that  came  the  final 
struggle. 

We  found  many  groups  of  pines,  this  morn- 
ing, in  the  amphitheater  between  the  bluffs, 
and  under  them  the  wintergreen  berries  in 
rich  profusion.  Some  of  the  little  pocket 
farms  in  these  depressions  are  delightful  bits 
of  rugged  landscape.  In  the  fields  of  corn, 
now  neatly  shocked,  the  golden  pumpkins 
seemed  as  if  in  imminent  danger  of  rolling 


A  Panoramic  View.  267 

down  hill.  There  are  curious  effects  in 
architecture,  where  the  barns  and  other 
outbuildings  far  overtop  the  dwellings,  and 
have  to  be  reached  by  flights  of  steps  or 
angling  paths.  Yet  here  and  there  are  pleas- 
ant, gently  rolling  fields,  nearer  the  bank,  and 
smooth,  sugar-loaf  mounds  upon  which  cattle 
peacefully  graze.  The  buckwheat  patches  are 
white  with  blossom.  Now  and  then  can  just 
be  distinguished  the  forms  of  men  and  women 
husking  maize  upon  some  fertile  upland  bench. 
And  so  goes  on  the  day.  Now,  with  pret- 
ty glimpses  of  rural  life,  often  reminding  one 
of  Rhineland  views,  without  the  castles;  then, 
swishing  off  through  the  heart  of  the  bottoms 
for  miles,  shut  in  except  from  distant  views  of 
the  hill-tops,  and  as  excluded  from  humanity, 
in  these  vistas  of  sand  and  morass,  as  though 
traversing  a  wilderness  ;  anon,  darting  past 
deserted  rocky  slopes  or  through  the  dark 
shadow  of  beetling  cliffs,  and  the  gloomy 
forests  which  crown  them. 

Lone  Rock  ferry  is  nearly  fourteen  miles 
below  Helena  bridge.  As  we  came  in  view, 
the  boat  was  landing  a  doctor's  gig  at  the 
foot  of  a  bold,  naked  bluff,  on  the  southern 
bank.  The  doctor  and  the  ferryman  gave 
civil  answers  to  our  queries  about  distances, 
and  expressed  great  astonishment  when  an- 


268  Historic  Waterways. 

swered,  in  turn,  that  we  were  bound  for  the 
mouth  of  the  river.  "  Mighty  dull  business," 
the  doctor  remarked,  "  traveling  in  that  little 
cockle-shell ;  I  should  think  you  'd  feel  afraid, 
ma'am,  on  this  big,  lonesome  river  ;  my  wife 
don't  dare  look  at  a  boat,  and  I  always  feel 
skittish  coming  over  on  the  ferry."  I  assured 
him  that  canoeing  was  far  from  being  a  dull 

business,  and  W good-humoredly  added 

that  she  had  as  yet  seen  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  The  doctor  laughed  and  said  something, 
as  he  clicked  up  his  bony  nag,  about  "  tastes 
differing,  anyhow."  And,  the  ferryman  trudg- 
ing behind,  —  the  smoke  from  his  cabin 
chimney  was  rising  above  the  tree-tops  in 
a  neighboring  ravine,  —  the  little  cortege 
wound  its  way  up  the  rough,  angling  road- 
way fashioned  out  of  the  face  of  the  bluff,  and 
soon  vanished  around  a  corner.  Lone  Rock 
village  is  a  mile  and  a  half  inland  to  the 
south. 

Just  below,  the  cliff  overhangs  the  stream, 
its  base  having  been  worn  into  by  centuries 
of  ceaseless  washing.  On  a  narrow  beach  be- 
neath, a  group  of  cows  were  chewing  their 
cuds  in  an  atmosphere  of  refreshing  coolness. 
From  the  rocky  roof  above  them  hung  ferns 
in  many  varieties,  —  maidenhair,  the  wood, 
the  sensitive,  and  the  bladder  ;  while  in  clefts 


A  Panoramic  View.  269 

and  grottos,  or  amid  great  heaps  of  rock 
debris,  hard  by,  there  were  generous  masses 
of  king  fern,  lobelia  carclinalis,  iron  and  sneeze 
weed,  golden-rod,  daisies,  closed  gentian,  and 
eupatorium,  in  startling  contrasts  of  vivid 
color.  It  being  high  noon,  we  stopped  and 
landed  at  this  bit  of  fairy  land,  ate  our  din- 
ner, and  botanized.  There  was  a  tinge  of 

triumphant  scorn  in  W 's  voice,  when, 

emerging  from  a  spring-head  grotto,  bearing 
in  one  arm  a  brilliant  bouquet  of  wild  flowers 
and  in  the  other  a  mass  of  fern  fronds,  she 
cried,  "  To  think  of  his  calling  canoeing  a 
dull  business  !  " 

Richland  City,  on  the  northern  bank,  five 
miles  down,  is  a  hamlet  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
houses,  some  of  them  quite  neat  in  appear- 
ance. Nestled  in  a  grove  of  timber  on  a  plain 
at  the  base  of  the  bluffs,  the  village  presents 
a  quaint  old-country  appearance  for  a  long 
distance  up-stream.  The  St.  Paul  railway, 
which  skirts  the  northern  bank  after  crossing 
the  Helena  bridge,  sends  out  a  spur  north- 
ward from  Richland  City,  to  Richland  Center, 
the  chief  town  in  Richland  county. 

Two  miles  below  Richland  City,  we  landed 
at  the  foot  of  an  imposing  bluff,  which  rises 
sharply  for  three  hundred  feet  or  more  from  the 
water's  edge.  It  is  practically  treeless  on  the 


270  Historic  Waterways. 

river  side.  We  ascended  it  through  a  steep 
gorge  washed  by  a  spring  torrent.  Strewn 
with  bowlders  and  hung  with  bushes  and  an 
occasional  thicket  of  elms  and  oaks,  the  path 
was  rough  but  sure.  From  the  heights  above, 
the  dark  valley  lay  spread  before  us  like  a 
map.  Ten  miles  away,  to  our  left,  a  splash  of 
white  in  a  great  field  of  green  marked  the 
location  of  Lone  Rock  village ;  five  miles  to 
the  right,  a  spire  or  two  rising  above  the 
trees  indicated  where  Muscoda  lay  far  back 
from  the  river  reaches  ;  while  in  front,  two 
miles  away,  peaceful  little  Avoca  was  sunning 
its  gray  roofs  on  a  gently  rising  ground. 
Between  these  settlements  and  the  parallel 
ranges  which  hemmed  in  the  panoramic  view, 
lay  a  wide  expanse  of  willow-grown  sand- 
fields,  forested  morasses,  and  island  meadows 
through  which  the  many-channeled  river  cut 
its  devious  way.  In  the  middle  foreground, 
far  below  us,  some  cattle  were  being  driven 
through  a  bushy  marsh  by  boys  and  dogs. 
The  cows  looked  the  size  of  kittens  to  us  at 
our  great  elevation,  but  such  was  the  purity 
cf  the  atmosphere  that  the  shouts  and  yelps 
of  the  drivers  rose  with  wonderful  clearness, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  brush  was  as  if  in  an 
adjoining  lot.  The  noise  seemed  so  dispro- 
portioned  to  the  size  of  the  objects  occasion- 


A  Panoramic  View.  271 

ing  it,  that  this  acoustic  effect  was  at  first 
rather  startling. 

The  whitewashed  cabin  of  a  squatter  and 
his  few  log  outbuildings  occupy  a  little  basin 
to  one  side  of  the  bluff".  His  cattle  were 
ranging  over  the  hillsides,  attended  by  a  colly. 
The  family  were  rather  neatly  dressed,  but 
there  did  not  appear  to  be  over  an  acre  of 
land  level  enough  for  cultivation,  and  that  was 
entirely  devoted  to  Indian  corn.  It  was  some- 
thing of  a  mystery  how  this  man  could  earn  a 
living  in  his  cooped-up  mountain  home.  But 
the  honest-looking  fellow  seemed  quite  con- 
tented, sitting  in  the  shade  of  his  woodpile 
smoking  a  corncob  pipe,  surrounded  by  a  half 
dozen  children.  He  cheerfully  responded  to 
my  few  queries,  as  we  stopped  at  his  wdl  on 
the  return  to  our  boat.  The  good  wife,  a 
buxom  woman  with  pretty  blue  eyes  set  in  a 
smiling  face,  was  peeling  a  pan  of  potatoes  on 
the  porch,  near  by,  while  one  foot  rocked  a 
rude  cradle  ingeniously  formed  out  of  a  bar- 
rel head  and  a  lemon  box.  She  seemed 

mightily  pleased  as  W stroked  the  face 

of  the  chubby  infant  within,  and  made  in- 
quiries as  to  the  ages  of  the  step-laddered 
brood  ;  and  the  father,  too,  fairly  beamed  with 
satisfaction  as  he  placed  his  hands  on  the 
golden  curls  of  his  two  oldest  misses  and 


272  Historic  Waterways. 

proudly  exhibited  their  little  tricks  of  precoc- 
ity. There  can  be  no  poverty  under  such  a 
roof.  Millionnaires  might  well  envy  the  peace- 
ful contentment  of  these  hillside  squatters. 

Down  to  Muscoda  we  followed  the  rocky 
and  wood-crowned  northern  bank,  along  which 
the  country  highway  is  cut  out.  The  swift 
current  closely  hugs  it,  and  there  was  needed 
but  slight  exertion  with  the  paddles  to  lead  a 
sewing-machine  agent,  whom  we  found  to  be 
urging  his  horse  into  a  vain  attempt  to  dis- 
tance the  canoe.  As  he  seemed  to  court  a 
race,  we  had  determined  not  to  be  outdone, 
and  were  not. 

Orion,  on  the  northern  side,  just  above 
Muscoda,  is  a  deserted  town.  It  must  have 
been  a  pretentious  place  at  one  time.  There 
are  a  dozen  empty  business  buildings,  now 
tenanted  by  bats  and  spiders.  On  one  shop 
front,  a  rotting  sign  displays  the  legend, 
"  World's  Exchange  ; "  there  is  also  a  "  Globe 
Hotel,"  and  the  remains  of  a  bank  or  two. 
Alders,  lilacs,  and  gnarled  apple-trees  in  many 
deserted  clumps,  tell  where  the  houses  once 
were  ;  and  the  presence,  among  these  ruins,  of 
a  family  or  two  of  squalid  children  only  em- 
phasizes the  dreary  loneliness.  Orion  was 
once  a  "  boom  "  town,  they  tell  us,  —  an  ex- 
pressive epitaph. 


A  Panoramic  View.  273 

A  thin,  outcropping  substratum  of  sand- 
stone is  noticeable  in  this  section  of  the  river. 
It  underlies  the  sandy  plains  which  abut  the 
Wisconsin  in  the  Muscoda  region,  and  lines 
the  bed  of  the  stream  ;  near  the  banks,  where 
there  is  but  a  slight  depth  of  water,  rapids 
are  sometimes  noticeable,  the  rocky  bottom 
being  now  and  then  scaled  off  into  a  stairlike 
form,  for  the  fall  is  here  much  sharper  than 
customary. 

Because  of  an  outlying  shelf  of  this  sand- 
stone, bordered  by  rapids,  but  covered  with 
only  a  few  inches  of  dead  water,  we  had  some 
difficulty  in  landing  at  Muscoda  beach,  on  the 
southern  shore.  Some  stout  poling  and  lift- 
ing were  essential  before  reaching  land.  Mus- 
coda was  originally  situated  on  the  bank, 
which  rises  gently  from  the  water;  but  as  the 
river  trade  fell  off,  the  village  drifted  up 
nearer  the  bluff,  a  mile  south  over  the  plain, 
in  order  to  avoid  the  spring  floods.  There  is 
a  toll-bridge  here  and  a  large  brewery,  with 
extensive  cattle-sheds  strung  along  the  shore. 
A  few  scattering  houses  connect  these  estab- 
lishments with  the  sleepy  but  neat  little  ham- 
let of  some  five  hundred  inhabitants.  After  a 
brisk  walk  up  town,  in  the  fading  sunlight, 
which  cast  a  dazzling  glimmer  on  the 
whitened  dunes  and  heightened  the  size  of 
18 


274  Historic  Waterways. 

the  dwarfed  herbage,  we  returned  to  the  canoe, 
and  cast  off  to  seek  camping  quarters  for  the 
night,  down-stream. 

A  mile  below,  on  the  opposite  bank,  a 
large  straw-stack  by  the  side  of  a  small  farm- 
house attracted  our  attention.  We  stopped 
to  investigate.  There  was  a  good  growth  of 
trees  upon  a  gentle  slope,  a  few  rods  from  shore, 
and  a  beach  well  strewn  with  drift-wood.  The 
farmer  who  greeted  us  was  pleasant-spoken, 
and  readily  gave  us  permission  to  pitch  our  tent 
in  the  copse  and  partake  freely  of  his  straw. 

Now  more  accustomed  to  the  river's  ways, 
we  keenly  enjoyed  our  supper,  seated  around 
our  little  camp-fire  in  the  early  dark.  We 
had  occasional  glimpses  of  the  lights  in  Mus- 
coda,  through  the  swaying  trees  on  the  bot- 
toms to  the  south  ;  an  owl,  on  a  neighboring 
island,  incessantly  barked  like  a  terrier ;  the 
whippoorwills  were  sounding  their  mournful 
notes  from  over  the  gliding  river,  and  now 
and  then  a  hoarse  grunt  or  querulous  squeal 
in  the  wood-lot  behind  us  gave  notice  that  we 
were  quartered  in  a  hog  pasture.  Soon  the 
moon  came  out  and  brilliantly  lit  the  opens, 
—  the  glistening  river,  the  stretches  of  white 
sand,  the  farmer's  fields,  —  and  intensified  the 
sepulchral  shadows  of  the  lofty  bluffs  which 
overhang  the  scene. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

FLOATING   THROUGH    FAIRYLAND. 

T  TNDISTURBED  by  hogs  or  river  tramps, 
^•^  we  slept  soundly  until  seven,  the  follow- 
ing morning.  There  was  a  heavy  fog  again, 
but  by  the  time  we  had  leisurely  eaten  our 
breakfast,  struck  camp,  and  had  a  pleasant 
chat  with  our  farmer  host  and  his  "  hired 
man,"  who  had  come  down  to  the  bank  to 
make  us  a  call,  the  mists  had  rolled  away  be- 
fore the  advances  of  the  sun. 

At  half  past  ten  we  were  at  Port  Andrew, 
eight  miles  below  camp  on  the  north  shore. 
The  Port,  or  what  is  left  of  it,  lies  stretched 
along  a  narrow  bench  of  sand,  based  with 
rock,  some  forty  feet  above  the  water,  with 
a  high,  naked  bluff  backing  it  to  the  north. 
There  is  barely  room  for  the  buildings,  on 
either  side  of  its  one  avenue  paralleling  the 
river ;  this  street  is  the  country  road,  which 
skirts  the  bank,  connecting  the  village  with 


276  Historic  Waterways. 

the  sparse  settlements,  east  and  west.  In  the 
old  rafting  days,  the  Port  was  a  stopping-place 
for  the  lumber  pilots.  There  being  neither 
rafts  nor  pilots,  nowadays,  there  is  no  business 
for  the  Port,  except  what  few  dollars  may  be 
picked  up  from  the  hunters  who  frequent  this 
place  each  fall,  searching  for  woodcock.  But 
even  the  woodcocking  industry  has  been  over- 
done here,  and  two  sportsmen  whom  we  met 
on  the  beach  declared  that  there  were  not 
enough  birds  remaining  to  pay  for  the  trouble 
of  getting  here.  For,  indeed,  Port  Andrew 
is  quite  off  the  paths  of  modern  civilization. 
There  is  practically  no  communication  with 
the  country  over  the  bluffs,  northward  ;  and 
Blue  River,  the  nearest  railway  station,  to 
which  there  is  a  tri-weekly  mail,  is  four  miles 
southward,  over  the  bottoms,  with  an  uncer- 
tain ferryage  between.  There  are  less  than 
fifty  human  beings  in  Port  Andrew  now,  but 
double  that  number  of  dogs,  the  latter  mostly 
of  the  pointer  breed,  kept  for  the  benefit  of 
huntsmen. 

We  climbed  the  bank  and  went  over  to  the 
post-office  and  general  store.  It  seems  to  be 
the  only  business  establishment  left  alive  in 
the  hamlet ;  although  there  are  a  dozen  de- 
serted buildings  which  were  stores  in  the  long 
ago,  but  are  now  ghostly  wrecks,  open  to  wind 


Floating  through  Fairyland.     277 

and  weather  on  every  side,  and,  with  sunken 
ridge-poles,  waiting  for  the  first  good  wind- 
storm to  furnish  an  excuse  for  a  general  col- 
lapse. A  sleepy,  greasy-looking  lad,  whose 
originally  white  shirt-front  was  sadly  stained 
with  water-melon  juice,  had  charge  of  the 
meager  concern.  He  said  that  the  farmers 
north  of  the  bluffs  traded  in  towns  more  ac- 
cessible than  this,  and  that  south  of  the 
stream,  Blue  River,  being  a  railroad  place, 
was  "  knockin'  the  spots  off  'n  the  Port." 
Ten  years  ago,  he  had  heard  his  "  pa "  say 
the  Port  was  "  a  likely  place,"  but  it  "  ain't 
much  shakes  now." 

But  there  is  a  certain  quaintness  about 
these  ruins  of  Port  Andrew  that  is  quite 
attractive.  A  deep  ravine,  cut  through  the 
shale-rock,  comes  winding  down  from  a  pass 
among  the  bluffs,  severing  the  hamlet  in  twain. 
Over  it  there  is  sprung  a  high-arched,  rough 
stone  bridge,  with  crenelled  walls,  quite  as 
artistic  in  its  way  as  may  be  found  in  pictures 
of  ancient  English  brook-crossings.  On  the 
summit  of  a  rising-ground  beyond,  stands 
the  solitary,  whitened  skeleton  of  a  once  spa- 
cious inn,  a  broad  double-decked  veranda 
stretching  across  its  river  front,  and  hitching- 
posts  and  drinking-trough  now  almost  lost  to 
view  in  a  jungle  of  docks  and  sand-burrs. 


278  Historic  Waterways. 

The  cracks  in  the  rotten  veranda  floors  are 
lined  with  grass  ;  the  once  broad  highway  is 
now  reduced  to  an  unfrequented  trail  through 
the  yielding  sand,  which  is  elsewhere  hid 
under  a  flowery  mantle  made  up  of  delicate, 
fringed  blossoms  of  pinkish  purple,  called  by 
the  natives  "  Pike's  weed,"  and  the  rich  yellow 
and  pale  gold  of  the  familiar  "  butter  and  eggs." 
The  peculiar  effect  of  color,  outline,  and  per- 
spective, that  hazy  August  day,  was  indeed 
charming.  But  we  were  called  from  our  rapt 
contemplation  of  the  picture,  by  the  assem- 
blage around  us  of  half  the  population  of  Port 
Andrew,  led  by  the  young  postmaster  and 
accompanied  by  a  drove  of  playful  hounds. 
The  impression  had  somehow  got  abroad  that 
we  had  come  to  prospect  for  an  iron  mine,  in 
the  bed  of  the  old  ravine,  and  there  was  a 
general  desire  to  see  how  the  thing  was  done. 
The  popular  disappointment  was  evidently 
great,  when  we  descended  from  our  perch  on 
the  old  bridge  wall,  and  returned  to  the  little 
vessel  on  the  beach,  which  had  meanwhile 
been  closely  overhauled  by  a  knot  of  inquisi- 
tive urchins.  A  part  of  the  crowd  followed 
us  down,  plying  innocent  questions  by  the 
score,  while  on  the  summit  of  the  bank 
above  stood  a  watchful  group  of  women  and 
girls,  some  in  huge  sun-bonnets,  others  with 


Floating  through  Fairyland.     279 

aprons  thrown  over  their  heads.  There  was 
a  general  waving  of  hats  and  aprons  from  the 
shore,  as  we  shot  off  into  the  current  again, 
and  our  "  Good-by ! "  was  answered  by  a 
cheery  chorus.  It  is  evident  that  Port  An- 
drew does  not  have  many  exciting  episodes  in 
her  aimless,  far-away  life. 

Flocks  of  crows  were  seen  to-day,  winging 
their  funereal  flight  from  shore  to  shore,  and 
uttering  dismal  croaks.  The  islands  pre- 
sented a  more  luxurious  flora  than  we  had 
yet  seen  ;  the  marsh  grass  upon  them  was 
rank  and  tall,  the  overhanging  trees  sumptu- 
ously vine-clad,  the  autumn  tints  deeper  and 
richer  than  before,  the  banks  glowing  with  car- 
dinal and  yellow  and  purple ;  while  on  the  sandy 
shores  we  saw  loosestrife,  white  asters,  the 
sensitive  plant,  golden-rod,  and  button-bush. 
Blue  herons  drifted  through  the  air  on  their 
wide-spread  wings,  heads  curved  back  upon 
their  shoulders,  and  legs  hanging  straight 
down,  to  settle  at  last  upon  barren  sand-spits, 
and  stand  in  silent  contemplation  of  some 
pool  of  dead  water  where  perhaps  a  stray  fish 
might  reward  their  watchfulness.  Solitary 
kingfishers  kept  their  vigils  on  the  numerous 
snags.  Now  and  then  a  turtle  shuffled  from 
his  perch  and  went  tumbling  with  a  loud 
splash  into  his  favorite  watering-place. 


280  Historic  Waterways. 

Although  yet  too  early  for  Indian  summer, 
the  day  became,  by  noon,  very  like  those 
which  are  the  delight  of  a  protracted  north- 
western autumn.  A  golden  haze  threw  a 
mystic  veil  over  the  landscape  ;  distant  shore 
lines  were  obliterated,  sand  and  sky  and 
water  at  times  merged  in  an  indistinct  blur, 
and  distances  were  deceptive.  Now  and  then 
the  vistas  of  white  sand-fields  would  appar- 
ently stretch  on  to  infinity.  Again,  the  river 
would  seem  wholly  girt  with  cliffs  and  we  in 
the  bottom  of  a  huge  mountain  basin,  from 
which  egress  was  impossible ;  or  the  stream 
would  for  a  time  appear  a  boundless  lake. 
The  islands  ahead  were  as  if  floating  in  space, 
and  there  were  weird  reflections  of  far-away 
objects  in  the  waters  near  us.  While  these 
singular  effects  lasted  we  trimmed  our  bark  to 
the  swift-gliding  current,  and  floated  along 
through  fairy-land,  unwilling  to  break  the 
charm  by  disturbing  the  mirrored  surface  of 
the  flood. 

Soon  after  the  dinner  hour  we  came  in  sight 
of  the  Boscobel  toll-bridge,  —  an  ugly,  clumsy 
structure,  housed-in  like  a  tunnel,  and  as  dark 
as  a  pocket.  I  was  never  quite  able  to  under- 
stand why  some  bridge-makers  should  cover 
their  structures  in  this  fashion,  and  others,  in 
the  same  locality,  leave  them  open  to  wind  and 


Floating  through  Fairyland.     281 

weather.  So  far  as  my  unexpert  observation 
goes,  covered  bridges  are  no  more  durable 
than  the  open,  and  they  are  certainly  less 
cheerful  and  comely.  A  chill  always  comes 
over  me  as  I  enter  one  of  these  damp  and 
gloomy  hollow-ways ;  and  the  thought  of  how 
well  adapted  they  are  to  the  purposes  of  the 
thug  or  the  footpad  is  not  a  particularly  pleas- 
ant one  for  the  lonely  traveler  by  night.  A 
dead  little  river  hamlet,  now  in  abject  ruins, 
—  Manhattan  by  name,  —  occupies  the  rug- 
ged bank  at  the  north  end  of  the  long  bridge ; 
while  southward,  Boscobel  is  out  of  sight,  a 
mile  and  a  half  inland,  across  the  bottoms. 
The  bluff  overtopping  Manhattan  is  a  quarry 
of  excellent  hard  sandstone,  and  a  half  dozen 
men  were  dressing  blocks  for  shipment,  on 
the  rocky  shore  above  us.  They  and  their 
families  constitute  Manhattan. 

Eight  miles  down  river,  also  on  the  north 
bank,  is  Boydtown.  There  are  two  houses 
there,  in  a  sandy  glen  at  the  base  of  a  group 
of  heavily  wooded  foot-hills.  At  one  of  the 
dwellings  —  a  neat,  slate-colored  cottage —  we 
found  a  cheery,  black-eyed  woman  sitting  on 
the  porch  with  a  brood  of  five  happy  children 
playing  about  her.  As  she  hurried  away 
to  get  the  butter  and  milk  which  we  had 
asked  for,  she  apologized  for  being  seen  to 


282  Historic  Waterways. 

enjoy  this  unwonted  leisure,  apparently  not 
desirous  that  we  should  suppose  her  to  be  any 
other  than  the  hard-working  little  body  which 
her  hands  and  driving  manner  proclaimed  her 
to  be.  When  she  returned  with  our  supplies 
she  said  that  they  had  "  got  through  thrash- 
in',  "  the  day  before,  and  she  was  enjoying  the 
luxury  of  a  rest  preparatory  to  an  accumulated 
churning.  I  looked  incredulously  at  the  sandy 
waste  in  which  this  little  home  was  planted, 
and  the  good  woman  explained  that  their  farm 
lay  farther  back,  on  fair  soil,  although  the  pres- 
ent dry  season  had  not  been  the  best  for  crops. 
Her  brown-faced  boy  of  ten  and  two  little 
girls  of  about  eight  —  the  laughing  faces  and 
crow-black  curls  of  the  latter  hid  under  im- 
mense flapping  sun-bonnets  —  accompanied 
us  to  the  bayou  by  which  we  had  approached 
Boydtown.  They  had  a  gay,  unrestrained 
manner  that  was  quite  captivating,  and  we 
were  glad  to  have  them  row  alongside  of  us 
for  a  way  down-stream  in  the  unwieldy  family 
punt,  the  lad  handling  the  crude  oars  and  the 
girls  huddled  together  on  the  stern  seat,  cov- 
ered by  their  great  sun-bonnet  flaps,  as  with  a 
cape.  They  were  "  goin'  grapein',"  they  said  ; 
and  at  an  island  where  the  vines  hung  dark 
with  purple  clusters,  they  piped  "  Good-by, 
you  uns  ! "  in  tittering  unison. 


Floating  through  Fairyland.     283 

By  this  time,  the  weather  had  changed. 
The  haze  had  lifted.  The  sky  had  quickly 
become  overcast  with  leaden  rainclouds,  and 
an  occasional  big  drop  gave  warning  of  an 
approaching  storm.  A  few  miles  below  Boyd- 
town,  we  stopped  to  replenish  our  canteen  at 
the  St.  Paul  railway's  fine  iron  bridge,  the 
last  crossing  on  that  line  between  Milwaukee 
and  Prairie  du  Chien.  On  the  southern  end 
of  the  bridge  is  Woodman  ;  on  the  northern 
bank,  the  tender's  house.  As  we  were  in 
the  northern  channel,  it  was  impracticable  to 
reach  the  village,  separated  from  us  by  wide 
islands  and  long  stretches  of  swamp  and  for- 
est, except  by  walking  the  bridge  and  the 
mile  or  two  of  trestle-work  approaches  to  the 
south.  As  for  the  bridge-house,  there  chanced 
to  be  no  spare  quarters  for  us  there.  So  we 
voted  to  trust  to  fortune  and  push  on,  al- 
though the  tender's  wife,  a  pleasant,  English- 
faced  woman,  with  black,  sparkling  eyes  and 
a  hospitable  smile,  was  much  exercised  in 
spirit,  and  thought  we  were  running  some 
hazard  of  a  wetting. 

The  skies  lightened  for  a  time,  and  then 
there  came  rolling  up  from  over  the  range  to 
the  southwest  great  jagged  rifts  of  black 
clouds,  ugly  "  thunder  heads,"  which  seemed 
to  presage  a  deluge.  Below  them,  veiling  the 


284  Historic  Waterways. 

tallest  peaks,  tossed  and  sped  the  light-footed 
couriers  of  the  wind,  and  we  saw  the  dark- 
green  bosom  of  the  upper  forests  heave  with 
the  emotions  of  the  air,  while  the  rushing 
stream  below  flowed  on  unruffled.  The  river 
is  here  united  in  one  broad  channel.  At  the 
first  evidence  of  a  blow,  we  hurried  across  to 
the  windward  bank.  We  were  landing  at  the 
swampy,  timber-strewn  base  of  a  precipitous 
cliff  as  the  wind  passed  over  the  valley,  and 
had  just  completed  our  preparations  for  shel- 
ter when  the  rain  began  to  come  in  blinding 
sheets. 

The  possibility  of  having  to  spend  the 
night  under  the  sepulchral  arches  of  this  for- 
ested morass  was  not  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate. The  storm  abated,  however,  within 
half  an  hour,  and  we  were  then  able  to  dis- 
tinguish a  large  white  house  apparently  set 
back  in  an  open  field  a  half  mile  or  more 
from  the  opposite  shore. 

Re-embarking,  we  headed  that  way,  and 
found  a  wood-fringed  stream  several  rods 
wide,  pouring  a  vigorous  flood  into  the  Wis- 
consin, from  the  north.  Our  map  showed  it 
to  be  the  Kickapoo,  an  old-time  logging  river, 
and  the  house  must  be  an  outlying  member 
of  the  small  railroad  village  of  Wauzeka.  A 
consultation  was  held  on  board,  at  the  mouth 


Floating  through  Fairyland.     285 

of  the  Kickapoo.  On  the  Wisconsin  not  a 
house  was  to  be  seen,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  and  wide  stretches  of  swamp  and 
wooded  bog  appeared  to  line  both  its  banks. 
The  prospect  of  paddling  up  the  mad  little 
Kickapoo  for  a  mile  to  Wauzeka  was  dis- 
piriting, but  we  decided  to  do  it ;  for  night 
was  coming  on,  our  tent,  even  could  we  find 
a  good  camping  ground  in  this  marshy  wilder- 
ness, was  disposed  to  be  leaky,  and  a  steady 
drizzle  continued  to  sound  a  muffled  tattoo 
on  our  rubber  coats.  A  voluble  fisherman, 
caught  out  in  the  rain  like  ourselves,  came 
swinging  into  the  tributary,  with  his  cranky 
punt,  just  as  we  were  setting  our  paddles  for 
a  vigorous  pull  up-stream.  We  had  his  com- 
pany, side  by  side,  till  we  reached  the  St.  Paul 
railway  trestle,  and  beached  at  the  foot  of  a 
deserted  stave  mill,  in  whose  innermost  re- 
cesses we  deposited  our  traps.  Guided  by 
the  village  shoemaker's  boy,  who  had  been 
playing  by  the  river  side,  we  started  up  the 
track  to  find  the  hotel,  nearly  a  half  mile 
away. 

It  is  a  quiet,  comfortable,  old-fashioned  lit- 
tle inn,  this  hostelry  at  Wauzeka.  The  land- 
lord greeted  his  storm-bound  guests  with 
polite  urbanity,  and  with  none  of  that  inquisi- 
tiveness  so  common  in  rural  hosts.  At  sup- 


286  Historic  Waterways. 

per,  we  met  the  village  philosopher,  a  quaint, 
lone  old  man  who  has  an  opinion  of  his  own 
upon  most  human  subjects,  and  more  than 
dares  to  voice  it,  —  insists,  in  fact,  on  having 
it  known  of  all  men.  A  young  commercial 
traveler,  the  only  other  patron  of  the  estab- 
lishment, sadly  guyed  our  philosophical  mess- 
mate by  securing  his  verdict  on  a  wide  range 
of  topics,  from  the  latest  league  game  to  ab- 
struse questions  of  theology.  The  philoso- 
pher bit,  and  the  drummer  was  in  high  feather 
as  he  crinkled  the  corners  of  his  mouth  be- 
hind his  huge  moustache,  and  looked  slyly 
around  for  encouragement  that  was  not 
offered. 

Wauzeka  is,  in  one  respect,  like  too  many 
other  country  villages.  Three  saloons  dis- 
figure the  main  street,  and  in  front  of  them 
are  little  knots  of  noisy  loafers,  in  the  eve- 
ning, filling  up  the  rickety,  variously  graded 
sidewalk  to  the  gutter,  and  necessitating  the 
running  of  a  loathsome  gauntlet  to  those  who 
may  wish  to  pass  that  way.  The  boy  who 
can  grow  up  in  such  an  atmosphere,  unpol- 
luted, must  be  of  rare  material,  or  his  parents 
exceptionally  judicious.  There  are  few  large 
cities  where  one  can  see  the  liquor  traf- 
fic carried  on  with  such  disgusting  boldness 
as  in  hamlets  like  this,  where  screenless, 


Floating  through  Fairyland.     287 

open-doored  saloons  of  a  vile  character  jostle 
trading  shops  and  dwellings,  and  monopolize 
the  footway,  making  of  the  business  street  a 
place  which  women  may  abhor  at  any  hour, 
and  must  necessarily  avoid  after  sunset. 
With  a  local-option  law,  that  but  awaits  a  ma- 
jority vote  to  be  operative  in  such  communi- 
ties, it  is  a  strange  commentary  on  the  quality 
of  our  nineteenth-century  civilization  that  the 
dissolute  few  should  still,  as  of  old,  be  able  to 
persistently  hold  the  whip-hand  over  the  vir- 
tuous but  timid  many. 

Elsewhere  in  Wauzeka,  there  are  many 
pretty  grass-grown  lanes  ;  some  substantial 
cottages ;  a  prosperous  creamery,  employing 
the  service  of  the  especial  pride  of  the  village, 
a  six-inch  spouting  well,  driven  for  three  hun- 
dred feet  to  the  underlying  stratum  of  lime- 
rock  ;  a  saw-mill  or  two,  which  are  worked 
spasmodically,  according  to  the  log-driving 
stage  in  the  Kickapoo,  and  some  pleasant, 
accommodating  people,  who  appear  to  be  quite 
contented  with  their  lot  in  life. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   DISCOVERY   OF   THE   MISSISSIPPI. 

/~T"VHERE  was  fog  on  the  river  in  the 
-L  morning.  Across  the  broad  expanse  of 
field  and  ledge  which  separates  Wauzeka  from 
the  Wisconsin,  we  could  see  the  great  white 
mass  of  vapor,  fifty  feet  thick,  resting  on  the 
broad  channel  like  a  dense  coverlid  of  down. 
Soon  after  seven  o'clock,  the  cloud  lifted  by 
degrees,  and  then  broke  into  ragged  segments, 
which  settled  sluggishly  for  a  while  on  the 
tops  of  the  southern  line  of  bluffs  and  screened 
their  dark  amphitheaters  from  view,  till  at  last 
dissipated  into  thin  air. 

We  were  off  at  eight  o'clock,  fifteen  or 
twenty  men  coming  down  to  the  railway- 
bridge  to  watch  the  operation.  One  of  them 
helped  us  materially  with  our  bundles,  while 
the  rest  sat  in  a  row  along  the  trestle,  dangling 
their  feet  through  the  spaces  between  the 
stringers,  and  gazing  at  us  as  though  we  were 


The  Discovery  of  the  Mississippi.    2  89 

a  circus  company  on  the  move.  A  drizzle  set 
in,  just  as  we  pushed  from  the  bank,  and  we 
descended  the  Kickapoo  under  much  the 
same  conditions  of  atmosphere  as  those  we 
had  experienced  in  pulling  against  its  swirl- 
ing tide  the  evening  before. 

But  by  nine  o'clock  the  storm  was  over,  and 
we  had,  for  a  time,  a  calm,  quiet  journey,  a 
gray  light  which  harmonized  well  with  the 
wildly  picturesque  scenery,  and  a  fresh  west 
breeze  which  helped  us  on  our  way.  We 
were  now  but  twenty  miles  from  the  mouth. 
The  parallel  ranges  of  bluff  come  nearer 
together,  until  they  are  not  much  over  a  mile 
apart,  and  the  stream,  now  broader,  swifter, 
and  deeper,  is  less  encumbered  with  islands. 
Upon  the  peaty  banks  are  the  tall  white  spikes 
of  the  curious  turtlehead,  occasional  masses 
of  balsam-apple  vines,  the  gleaming  lobelia 
cardinalis,  yellow  honeysuckles  just  going  out 
of  blossom,  and  acres  of  the  golden  sneeze- 
weed,  which  deserves  a  better  name. 

At  Wright's  Ferry,  ten  miles  below,  there 
are  domiciled  two  German  families,  and  on  the 
shore  is  a  saw-mill  which  is  operated  in  the 
spring,  to  work  up  the  logs  which  farmers 
bring  down  from  the  gloomy  mountains  which 
back  the  scene. 

Bridgeport,  four  miles  farther,  —  still  on  the 
19 


290  Historic  Waterways. 

northern  side,  —  is  chiefly  a  clump  of  little 
red  railway  buildings  set  up  on  a  high  bench 
carved  from  the  face  of  the  bluff,  their  fronts 
resting  on  the  road-bed  and  their  rears  on 
high  scaffolding.  A  few  big  bowlders  rolling 
down  from  the  cliffs  would  topple  Bridgeport 
over  into  the  river.  There  is  a  covered  coun- 
try toll-bridge  here,  and  the  industrial  interest 
of  the  Liliputian  community  is  quarrying.  It 
is  the  last  hamlet  on  the  river. 

A  mist  again  formed,  casting  a  blue  tinge 
over  the  peaks  and  giving  them  a  far  distant 
aspect ;  dark  clouds  now  and  then  lowered 
and  rolled  through  the  upper  ravines,  reflect- 
ing their  inky  hue  upon  the  surface  of  the 
deep,  gliding  river.  The  bluffs,  which  had 
for  many  miles  closely  abutted  the  stream,  at 
last  gradually  swept  away  to  the  north  and 
south,  to  become  part  of  the  great  wall  which 
forms  the  eastern  bulwark  of  the  Upper  Mis- 
sissippi. At  their  base  spreads  a  broad,  flat 
plain,  fringed  with  boggy  woods  and  sandy 
meadows,  the  delta  of  the  Wisconsin,  which, 
below  the  Lowertown  bridge  of  the  Burling- 
ton and  Northern  railway,  is  cut  up  into  flood- 
washed  willow  islands,  flanked  by  a  wide 
stretch  of  shifting  sand-bars  black  with 
tangled  roots  and  stranded  logs,  the  debris  of 
many  a  spring-time  freshet. 


The  Discovery  of  the  Mississippi.    291 

It  was  about  half-past  twelve  o'clock  when  we 
came  to  the  junction  of  the  Wisconsin  and  the 
Mississippi.  Upon  a  willow-grown  sand-reef 
edging  the  swamp,  which  extends  northward 
for  five  miles  to  the  quaint,  ancient  little  city 
of  Prairie  du  Chien,  a  large  barge  lies  stranded. 
A  lone  fisherman  sat  upon  its  bulwark  rail, 
which  overhangs  the  rushing  waters  as  they 
here  commingle.  We  landed  with  something 
akin  to  reverence,  for  this  must  have  been 
about  the  place  where  Joliet  and  Marquette, 
two  hundred  and  fourteen  years  ago,  gazed 
with  rapture  upon  the  mighty  Mississippi, 
which  they  had  at  last  discovered,  after  so 
many  thousands  of  miles  of  arduous  journeying 
through  a  savage-haunted  wilderness.  And 
indeed  it  is  an  imposing  sight.  To  the  west, 
two  miles  away,  rise  the  wooded  peaks  on 
the  Iowa  side  of  the  great  river.  Northward 
there  are  pretty  glimpses  of  cliffs  and  rocky 
beaches  through  openings  in  the  heavy  growth 
which  covers  the  islands  of  the  upper  stream. 
Southward  is  a  long  vista  of  curving  hills  and 
glinting  water  shut  in  by  the  converging 
ranges.  Eastward  stretches  the  green  delta 
of  the  Wisconsin,  flanked  by  those  imposing 
bluffs,  between  whose  bases  for  two  centu- 
ries has  flowed  a  curious  throng  of  human- 
ity, savage  and  civilized,  on  errands  sacred 


292  Historic  Waterways. 

and  profane,  representing  many  clashing  na- 
tionalities. 

The  rain  descended  in  a  gentle  shower  as  I 
was  lighting  a  fire  on  which  to  cook  our  last 

canoeing  meal  of  the  season  ;  and  W 

held  an  umbrella  over  the  already  damp  kind- 
ling in  order  to  give  it  a  chance.  We  no  doubt 
made  a  comical  picture  as  we  crouched  to- 
gether beneath  this  shelter,  jointly  trying  to 
fan  the  sparks  into  a  flame,  for  the  fisherman, 
who  had  been  heretofore  speechless,  and  ap- 
parently rapt  in  his  occupation,  burst  out  into 
a  hearty  laugh.  When  we  turned  to  look  at 
him  he  hid  his  face  under  his  upturned  coat- 
collar,  and  giggled  to  himself  like  a  school- 
girl. He  was  a  jolly  dog,  this  fisherman,  and 
after  we  had  presented  him  with  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  what  solids  we  could  spare  from 
our  now  meager  store,  he  warmed  into  a  very 
communicative  mood,  and  gave  us  much  de- 
tailed, though  rather  highly  colored,  informa- 
tion about  the  locality,  especially  as  to  its 
natural  features. 

The  rain  had  ceased  by  the  time  dinner  was 
over ;.  so  we  bade  farewell  to  the  happy  fisher- 
man and  the  presiding  deities  of  the  Wiscon- 
sin, and  pulled  up  the  giant  Mississippi  to 
Prairie  du  Chien,  stopping  on  our  way  to  visit 
an  out-of-the-way  bayou,  botanically  famous, 


The  Discovery  of  the  Mississippi.     293 

where  flourishes  the  rare  nelumbium  luteura, 
—  America's  nearest  approach  to  the  lotus  of 
the  Nile. 

And  thus  was  accomplished  the  season's 
stint  of  six  hundred  miles  of  canoeing  upon 
the  Historic  Waterways  of  Illinois  and 
Wisconsin. 


INDEX. 


ALGOMA,  182,  186. 

Allouez,  Father  Claude,  176,  228, 

229. 

American  Fur  Co.,  145. 
Anderson,  Maj.  Robert,  U.S.  A  ,  i 
Antoinette,      Marie,      Queen     of 

France,  224. 
Appleton,  Wis.,  23,  27,   185,  202- 

207,  209. 

Arena  Ferry,  Wis.,  27,  257,  262. 
Arndt,  Judge  John  P.,  158. 
Astor,  John  Jacob,  145,  232. 
Atkinson,  Gen.  Henry,  U.  S.   .\  . 

19.  255- 
Avoca,  Wis.,  270. 

BAD  AXE,  battle  of,  255,  266. 

Baraboo  River,  241. 

Earth,  Laurent,  143. 

Beloit,  Wis.,  20,  26,  65. 

Berlin,  Wis.,  21,  22,  27,  164,  173- 

'75.  '77,  240. 
Black   Hawk  War,  18,  19,  87,  119, 

25%  253-255.  266. 
Black  Hawk  Mountain,  256. 
Black  River  Falls,  Wis.,  200. 
Black  Wolf   Point,   Lake  Winne- 

bago,  191. 

Blue  Mound,  Wis.,  266. 
Blue  River  Village,  Wis.,  276. 
Boscobel,  Wis.,  27,  280,  281. 
"Bourbon,  The  American."    Set 

Williams,  Eleazar. 


Boydtown,  Wis.,  27,  281,  282. 
Bridgeport,  Wis.,  27.  289,  290. 
Buffalo  Lake,  22,  160-162,  168, 

'73* 
Butte  des  Morts,  Lake  Grand,  161, 

181-183,  '99- 
Butte  des  Morts,  Lake  Petit,  199, 

201,  202. 
Butte  des  Morts  Village,   183-185, 

188. 

Butterfield,  Consul  W.,  cited,  176. 
Byron,  111.,  19,  26,  82-85. 

CANOEING,  pleasures  of,  15,  16. 
Canoeists,  suggestions  to,  23-26. 
Canoes,  styles  of,  15,  16. 
Carbon  Cliff,  111.,  138,  139. 
Catfish  River,  Wis. ,  18,  31-59. 
Champche  Keriwinke,  Winnebago 

princess,  200,  201. 
Champlain,  Governor  of  Quebec, 

'75.  230- 

Cherry  River,  80. 
Chicago,  Burlington,  and  Northern 

Ry.,  290. 
Chicago,   Burlington,  and   Quincy 

Ry-,  '37-'39- 
Chicago,  Milwaukee,  and  St.  Paul 

Ry.,  76,  82,  178,  186,  256,  259- 

265,  269,  283,  285. 
Chicago    and    Northwestern   Ry., 

65,  248-250. 
Cleveland,  111.,  137. 


296 


Index. 


Coloma,  111.,  26,  138-140. 
Como,  111.,  26,  109-111. 
Crooks,  Ramsay,  232. 

DABLON,  Father  Claude,  229. 
Dakotah  Indians.     See  Sioux  and 

Winnebagoes. 

Davis,  Jefferson,  19,  145,  146. 
Dekorra,  Wis.,  242-245. 
De  Korra,  early  fur  trader,  199,  200. 
Depere,  Wis.,  206,  225,  228,  229. 
Dixon,  111.,  18,  20,  26,  87,  93,  94, 

97-101,  106-108. 
Dodge,  Maj.  Henry,  253,  255. 
Doty's  Island,  Wis  ,  195-201. 
Dunkirk,  Wis.,  52,  53. 

ERIE,  111.,  26,  124-136. 
Eureka,  Wis.,  178. 

FIRST  LAKE,  40,  43-45. 
Fond  du  Lac,  Wis.,  191. 
Fort  Crawford  (Prairie  du  Chien, 

Wis.),  145. 

Fort  Howard,  Wis.,  145,  228-234. 
Fort  Winnebago  (Portage,  Wis.), 

144-146. 

FourLake  country ,Wis.,i8,  33,  254. 
Four  Legs,  Winnebago  chief,  200, 

201. 
Fox  Indians  (see,  also,  Sacs),  176, 

196-199. 
Fox    River,   Wis.,    17,   21-23,   26, 

141-234,  239,  240,  255. 
Fulton,  Wis.,  56-58. 
Fur  trade  in  Wisconsin,  189,  196- 

200,  207,  208,  231,  234. 

GANYMEDE  SPRINGS,  111.,  89,  90. 
Garlic    Island,   Lake  Winnebago, 

189-191. 

Garritty,  Mary,  226-228. 
Grand  Detour,  111.,  92-106. 
Great   Bend  of  Rock  River,  105- 

106. 
Green  Bay,  Wis.,  23,  27,  180,  181, 

185,  198,  207,  229-234,  238. 
Grignon,  Augustin,   184,   185,  188, 

232- 


HANSON,  John  H.,  cited,  224,  225. 
Harney,    Gen.  William  S.,  U.  S. 

A.,  145. 

Helena  Village,  Wis  ,  27,  259-265. 
Helena,  Wis.,  Old,  265,  266. 
Henry,  Maj.  James  D  ,  253,  255. 
Hoo-Tschope.     See  Four  Legs. 

ILLINOIS  INDIANS,  21,  176. 

lowatuk,  Wiuuebago  princess,  189, 
191. 

JANESVILLE,  Wis.,  20,  26,  60-65. 
Jesuit  missionaries,    21,    24,    176, 

177,  180,  181,  228,  229,  231. 
Joliet,    Sieur    de,    21,    176,    229, 

239- 

KACKALiN.Grand.   See  Kaukauna. 
Kaukauna,  Wis.,  27,  185,  206-213. 
Kellogg's  trail,  106,  107. 
Keokuk,  Fox  chief,  255. 
Kickapoo  Indians,  175. 
Kickapoo    River,    Wis.,   27,    284, 

285,  287,  288. 
Kinzie,  Mrs.  John  H.,  cited,  146, 

200. 
Koshkonong,    Lake,    18,    19,    59, 

254- 

LAKESIDE,  Third  Lake,  32. 
Langlade,  Charles  de,  198,  232. 
Latham  Station,  111.,  76,  77. 
Lawrence  University,  205,  206. 
Lead  mines  at  Galena,  18. 
Lecuyer,  Jean  B.,  143,  144. 
Lignery,  Sieur  Marchand  de,  198. 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  19. 
Little  Kaukauna,  Wis.,  206,  216- 

219,  221,  225. 

Lone  Rock,  Wis.,  27,  262,  267-270. 
Louis  XVI.,  King  of  France,  223- 

225. 
Louis  XVII.,  Dauphin  of  France, 

223-225. 

Louvigny,  Sieur  de,  198. 
Lyndon,  111.,  26,  118. 

MADISON,  Wis.,  18,  26. 


Index. 


297 


Manhattan,  Wis.,  281. 
Marin,  Sieur  de,  197,  rgS. 
Marquette,  Father  James,  21,  157, 

176,  229,  239 
Marquette  Village,  Wis.,  26,   161, 

166-170. 

Mascouiin  Indians,  175-178. 
Mazomanie,  Wis.,  256. 
Menasha,  Wis.,  23,  183,  183,  i95> 

196,  207. 
Mcnomonee  Indians,  187,  188,  196, 

'97.  223. 

Merrimac,  Wis.,  27,  248-250. 
Miami  Indians,  175. 
Milan,  111.,  139. 
Milwaukee    and    Northern    Ry , 

203,  204. 
Mississippi  River,  21,  26,  27,  136, 

138,  180,  229-231,  239,   253-255, 

290-293. 

Mohawk  Indians,  222. 
Montello,  Wis.,  22,  26,  160,  162- 

168. 
Muscoda,  Wis.,   23,  27,  270,  272- 

274- 

NEENAH,   Wis.,  22,  27,   183,    185, 

191,  195-201,  206. 

New  York  Indians.     See  Oneidas. 
Nicolet,  Jean,  21,   175,   176,   230, 

23'- 

Northern  Insane    Hospitn!,    YVU.. 
189-191. 

OMRO,  Wis.,  22,  27,  175,  ij 

Oneida  Indians,  22- 

Oregon,  111.,  20,  26,  88-90. 

Orion,  Wis.,  272. 

Oshkosh,   Menomonee  chief,  1^7, 

188. 
Oshkosh,  Wis.,  27,  161,  182,  183, 

185-188,  190,  207. 
Ott's  Farm,  Madison,  \Vis.,  33. 
Owen,  111.     See  Latham  Station. 

PACKWAUKEE,  Wis.,  26,  150,  157- 

161,  163. 

Paine  Bros.,  186. 
Paquette,  Pierre,  144. 


Penney,  Josephine,  226-228. 
Philippe,  Louis,  King  of  France, 

225. 

Pope's  Springs,  Wis.,  60. 
Porlier,  James,  184,  185. 
Porlier,  Louis  B.,  184,  185. 
Portage,  Wis.,  21,  23,  26,  27,  143- 

14%  160,  161,  185,   198,  206,  237- 

242. 

Port  Andrew,  Wis.,  27,  275-279. 
Pottawattomie  Indians,  18,  19,  87. 
Poygan  Lake,  22,  180,  181. 
Prairie  du  Chien,  Wis.,  21,  27,  145, 

238,  240,  255,  291-293. 
Prairie  du  Sac,  Wis.,  23,  27,  252- 

256,  266. 
Princeton,  Wis.,   22,    27,  168-172, 

210. 

Prophetstown,  111.,  18,  26,  118-120. 
Puckawa  Lake,  22,  161,  163-169. 

RED  BIRD,  Winnebago  chief,  145. 
Richland  Center,  Wis.,  269. 
Richland  City,  Wis.,  269. 
Rockford,  111.,  20,  26,  79. 
Rock  Island,  111.,  18,  26,  139,  140, 

253- 
Rock  River,    17-21,    29-140,  213, 

253. 

Rockton,  111.,  20. 
Roscoe,  111.,  74,  76. 

SAC  INDIANS,    18,   19,   119,    198, 

253-256. 

Sacramento,  Wis.,  177,  178. 
Sank  City,  Wis.,  23,  256,  257. 
Sawyer,  Philetus,  186. 
Second  Lake,  33,  36-39,  43. 
Shaubena,  Pottawattomie  chief,  18. 
Sioux  Indians,  230,  231,  255. 
Smith's  Island,  Wis.,  149-156. 
Spring  Green,  Wis.,  261. 
Stebbinsville,  Wis.,  53,  54. 
Sterling,  111.,  20,  26,  108,  109. 
Stillman's  Creek,  19,  83,  86,  87. 
Stillman's  defeat,  19,  87. 
Stoughton,   Wis.,   20,  26,   42,   44, 

46-50,  52. 
Stuart,  Robert,  232. 


298 


Index. 


TAYLOR,  Zachary,  19. 

Third  Lake,  31,  33. 

Turvill's  Bay,  Third  Lake,  32,  33. 

Twiggs,  Maj.  David,  232. 

WALKING   CLOUD,  a  Winnebago, 

200. 

Wauzeka,  Wis.,  27,  285-288. 
White  Cloud,  Indian  prophet,  18, 

119. 

White  River  lock,  172,  173. 
Williams,  Eleazar,  222-228. 
Williams,  Mrs.  Eleazar,  225,  226. 
Winnebago  Indians,  19,  119,  145, 

166,  189,  196,   197,  199-201,  223, 

230,  231,  23'.  254,  ^55. 
Winnebago   Lake,    22,    180,    183, 

189-196,  206. 


Winnebago  prophet.      See  White 

Cloud. 

Winnebago  Rapids,  196-201. 
Winneconne,  22,  164,  179-182. 
Wisconsin  Central  Ry.,  144,  160. 
Wisconsin  Heights,  battle  cf,  254, 

266. 
Wisconsin    River,    17,   21-23,   27> 

143-146,  230,  231,  237-293. 
Wisconsin  River  Dells,  23. 
Wolf  River,  179-183,  185. 
Woodman,  Wis.,  283. 
Wright's  Ferry,  Wis.,  27,  289. 
Wrightstown,  Wis.,  213,  214,  220. 

YAHARA  RIVER.    See  Catfish. 


DATE  DUE 


14  1977 


13  1977 


PRINTED  IN  U    S 


